there are, with the heavy inevitably of solar flares,
people who assign you (you!) something like a value, alienated and
false and sad, in the way that packaging the sea piecemeal is false and sad.
it is important, as important as your quiet self, to reclaim your reflection, to remember that no one—
no, not even that one—will ever know you, and while yes, this
implies a loneliness both mundane and breathtaking, it
also—darling, look—it also holds your freedom out to you
in quivering hands, blue. they do not know better, or know you better.
the follies and faults and blunders of artificial language without
referents, deaf-mute, are not you and do not speak to you of you, you
burning billions of years forward, naked in your mirror
are responsible not for being good, or saving even one convert,
but only for allowing your soft body to echo a rainy morning,
only for hearing the godsong in your legs and the animal of your breath as you
inhale, exhale,
love what you love.
WanderWoman 