The UNSPOKEN

dear friends, peers, and everyone I surround myself with. 

past, present, and future,

a life

not a journey 

but striving

for every moment of peace one can muster

of love

clarity

and honesty

what are goals if not attempts towards peace

busy peace

restful peace

the peace of giving

the peace of knowing

the peace of being known

the peace of light

years of war 

for an attempt 

even if it all starts again

that's why we care so deeply about numbers

a record of our attempts

101, 102, 103…

to make sure it counts

our birth

and death

our only moments of presence 

every moment in between 

foggy as our motivation 

knowing we have these moments

birth

and death

is the only way to keep our sight

through the fog

to see the goal we hold so deep

peace and presence in an IV 

to fill every artery

head to toe

every fingertip

find peace in every moment you can

keep your sights clear

don’t let your attempts draw you away

see the beauty in your own world

and your own body

sincerely,

for me

from me

don’t make me

don't let me do it alone

“Does it hurt?” The moon asks one night, when I am lying in bed beneath it, making no real attempt at falling asleep. I could pretend, of course, like every other 9 to 5 worker in another dreamless sleep. I could close my eyes and say I do not hear it, live another miserably mundane day, but I understand. 

The moon is curious; it is not human and it wishes to be. 

“What?” I counter, like this is some chess match and not an earnest conversation between self and stranger. I swallow, voice thick, before I reiterate. “Does what hurt?” 

It is another few nights before the moon speaks again, only after it has waned back into its crescent shape. I do not care that it takes its time — the moon knows I am not asleep. It can take as many hours as it needs to turn the stars into its stage. 

“To be unaware,” it says in a stage whisper. “To not know what you will do tomorrow, nor who you will be when you do. Does it hurt to hold a great emptiness as a shield, protecting you from yourself?” 

I am silent for a great many days, until the moon disappears into the night and comes back. Again, I understand. The moon is curious; there is data that explains every move it makes. The moon does not second-guess itself, and it knows very little of emptiness. 

I am afraid I already know the answer: that it does not hurt because I do not feel, that I am forever stuck between drought and flood, that my emptiness is a dam instead of a shield. 

“Give me time,” I tell it anyway, a day, a week, a month later. “Let me explore the space between my mirror and my reflection. Let me find the pain and name it.” 

The moon does not tell me to be careful. It knows I will not be.