The Seperation

I’m not sure how I’m going to write about this subject because the matter, certainly the wrong word, is wholly abstract. That doesn’t make for good writing. I owe QuinnMama thanks on that lesson – specifics. A writer must anchor their work by using specifics. “When I woke up this morning I had rot in my mouth.” Much better than, “I woke up this morning with a bad taste in my mouth.” Snoozefest. Better still, “When I woke up this morning I had rot in my mouth, a woman’s monstrous brown nipple poking my eye and the memory of small bald man with cracked, marbleized teeth saying ‘Do you take this woman. . .’ Far better. Thanks, QuinnMama.

But for this piece of writing, I’m left in the territory of abstraction. How else do you write about a separation from the physical world into another perception. Like the snap of a fresh onion layer, I have broken the bounds in some small way. This break started after the writing of my prior post. All of it triggered by the death of my friend. Clarity, a clear day, blue sky, spring . . . the tether was broken . . . like a balloon I go sailing away, away . . . But I am still here . . .

We are physical beings, tied by forces to the physical world and walking under such gravity certain that we know this place. It almost fits in our minds, almost. We cram all we can – facts, figures, measurements, quantities. And they are real, they just aren’t all real. There is another perception. When we think of the dead, we think of them going somewhere . . . other. I’m hear to argue that we are a short step in perception away from occupying the same space, time . . . something. An added dimension for lack of any other way to describe such a thing. A movie rushing at full force into your brain and occupying everything, inflating, expanding and then rushing away. So it’s temporal, this crack in the fabric. At least for now. And exhausting. I haven’t been the same. There is no living in such a realm while experiencing through the prism of this mind. The screen locks up. It’s just too much.

How can anyone talk with certainty about life when life is the host? This borrowed state of consciousness is not a right, certainly not owned. It is given. An opportunity. For what? I don’t know. I matter little. I am only good as I am a part of the whole. Whatever it is I’m here to learn, I’m learning. Then, I go home. My heart aches.

Our efforts matter because we help move each other onward. An object at rest . . . so move me. I’ll move you. The whole thing will turn over and life will change, again. It is a heartbreaking journey we are all on no matter how we try to pretend otherwise. But it’s not all . . . it’s not . . . it’s just a mild separation to be, hopefully, healed.