We are all a body. Just one unit made of pieces and parts, contrasts and simplicity. One heart, one set of lungs, one brain, one design. Each part covers another. Each supports the whole or the sum of itself interdependently. We move ourselves, our real selves independent of our bodies. Our complexities float above our body. We associate the heart with love and feeling, loss and breakage. Our stomachs are where our cravings and hungers rumble. The instruments of our sex spurn us forward desirously but our bodies are simple. A simple untimed step can lead to paralysis. A twist in the wrong direction can pop a vertebrae. Following the wrong sorts of cravings can lead to heart, liver, or venereal disease. We are built like antiques. We can improve and white wash and restructure ourselves, but we are all built of the same bulk. The same bones hold the same joints that are covered in the same skin we keep for however long our lives will be.
I am in my body although I don't usually live in it. I float through the worlds beyond what holds me to the here and now. I am fragments encased in skin with nerves that tick and twitch. In my structure I try to make the right choices. Eat healthy, minimize my general risk, do what's right. I am both grand and slight in demeanor. My body lean, long limbed, fluid. I appear taller than I am. I hold attentions longer than most. I pull people towards me intimately. I live my real life in the interior world. I see bodies and bumps, but have my eyes fixed on the spaces beneath. I am intense. I am liquid. I am watching.
I coil and uncoil myself. Wrapping in and up around my heart's center. I try to make the right choices. Hold tightly, release, live and let live. I try to see the possible. I try to honor the now. I try to escape the body's pangs. I get smaller. I begin to shrink in my skin. I know choices must be made before this world disappears. This world created with silk and promise. The promise becomes a prison, the prison becomes a lie, and if I look really closely all I see are the bare bones that cover a shivering heart.
The body is a prison. It reflects no light. It can't stay warm on it's own. It isn't self sustaining. We live our real lives virtually unaware of our bodies unless they are failing us. If we don't see the shape we want to see in the mirror, if we are in pain, or miss the skin we had yesterday. We fall prey to it's limitations. We get tired, overstimulated, underdeveloped. We have hopes that we will endure. That today's troubles will melt away tomorrow if we rest. We hope that the ideals we set can be achieved with by doing what seems right.
Love becomes a prison. It isn't well lit. It can't manage to keep itself warm. It doesn't self sustain. It moves from the point of importance and becomes a process. A set of choices made based on the best of intentions: love purely, move forward, and just let it be become the proverbs written in the veins. The hands reach out and touch multitudes of skin cells, and bodies, and comfort foods a day. We look for this food, or fuel and deeper still we are looking for a jolt.
Something to deepen the breath and create the ease we crave in our bodies. That place to put all our good intentions while we process our pasts and our presents in the sea of movement and ignorance. I like the intimacies. I live for the unguarded moment. I am irrational. I can be attracted or repelled and that's where I begin. The silent movement of my body towards or away from an experience. I try to make the right choices. Follow your heart, be patient, be aware. I am a slave to the moment. I use my body as an instrument. I wrap my long limbs around what is appealing and let it take me further.
I make the choice to dream. I dream myself forward and backward on the wave of what is temporary yes. It's quick, it's intense, it's wonderful, and it's nothing. I betray my prisoner's heart for a dream. I watch my body get smaller and I don't like it. I want bigger things and fuller pleasures. This world made of silk and promise is drying up. It's light begins to dim, it grows cold, and it isn't made to self sustain. The angels sing to it now. They play their synths and trumpets but dare not make it rain.
Like Atlantis it's body becomes too heavy to stay afloat. It is overflowing with thought forms and the unresolved fragments of a world built on the best of intentions in a body too small to hold up the mass. It will sink. It will disappear. It won't be forgotten and one day it will be discovered again. The silken threads cleared away and columns standing tall on the right kind of foundation for a future complex. Maybe then we will have new bodies and we'll give the angels a reason to sing again. The synths and trumpets play out their funereal ballads. The songs wash over the land once know as Eden that must be left behind.
The ideal choices hurt no one. The best choices tend to lean to the right. The right choices can sometimes leave one totally empty, but in the space that's left behind we can fill ourselves again. Find new reasons to love. Find ourselves new foods and fuels and better cravings. Our bodies are simple but they are ours. Ours to sink or swim with and I want to start swimming again. I just want to swim.
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