I was led to believe, at one point,
that chaos is a necessary and wonderful path– that in disorder there lies truth, and that the infinite shift and displacement of substance (both physical and perceived)
was the universe’s most pure expression of beauty.
To ride the waves: from the vast emptiness pulled by the tide, expecting to be filled with sun and warmth.
I had once found comfort my relationship with chaos.
Strike true, dig deep, pull profound: I was the champion of the erratic. Each experience a collector’s item to an auction that no one could attend, but that my ego bought in bulk.
Somewhere between the mouth of the Mississippi and the Bering Straight, perhaps along the coast of the Yucatan,
I began to float (Or was I sinking ? It’s hard to tell from here)
in the great vastness, away from the chaos of the coastline, I remembered what it meant to be tranquil. So quickly do we grow accustomed to the noise, to the small pains we inflict onto ourselves and onto others. So easy it is to accept this weight, when added a droplet at a time.
Here, for once, is nowhere is particular
Not marked because of its great remoteness or known by any standard of achievement,
it exists without ego, without much mind of the tide, or what is or has yet to be
and I wonder how long this will last, because no where is never truly still,
before I crash (with great passion, and perhaps now, some melancholy) with the chaos of the coast once more.