everything i do comes down to the fact that i’ve been here before.
in some arrangement of my atoms i was allowed to be free
so don’t ask me when freedom is coming
when a certain eye of mine has seen it,
a cornea in a convoluted future recalls my freedom.
when asked about the absence of freedom, the lack of it
i laugh at the word absence, which always suggests
a presence that has left. but absence is the arena
of death, and we call the dead free (went on to glory), what
is the absence of freedom but an assumption of it?
i have never longed for something
which was not once mine. even fiction is my possession,
and flight is an act of fleeing as much as an act of flying.
can I really feel this hopeful?
inquiry for today~ maybe you, too, will feel perfection today….
Sometimes if you move carefully through the forest,
breathing like the ones in the old stories,
who could cross a shimmering bed of leaves
without a sound, you come to a place whose only task
is to trouble you with tiny but frightening requests,
conceived out of nowhere but in this place
beginning to lead everywhere.
Requests to stop what you are doing right now,
and to stop what you are becoming while you do it,
questions that can make or unmake a life,
questions that have patiently waited for you,
questions that have no right to go away.