Blue Eyes: fog

we step into each moment and we do not know who we will be on arrival. i stop and look around, i do not know this scene, i have no memory of how i got here, i’ve time traveled or interdimensionally slipped into this body which is much like my own. same toes, hearty fingers, and a sense that some story is trying it’s best to load into a brain that feels about the same as i’ve ever known.

i’m content right now, and i don’t think i really want the story. there’s an odd surge pressing on the back of my nose and my eyes are microscopically bulging in waves, like a dam is about to burst, so i assume there’s a sadness that wants to break over me, making me cry in this new body. what history would make me want to cry while sitting here with ocean fogs still lingering in the morning sky and raucous birds communing in the ancient sycamore trees? how could this peace be overwhelmed? it would have to be a powerful story.

i don’t know my name. i’m your typical amnesiac, fumbling with identity, but minus the desperation because what i do know is that all i have to do is let the flood of scenes pressing on me take over, fall in simple love with the way my nose stings in preparation for weeping, and i’ll be the character this new dimension demands of me.

it’s been a long time since i’ve wept, and maybe i want to revel in how comforting and exhausting it is. maybe i want to wrap all of this almost-familiar body in a patchwork blanket of history and mourn the days gone by and all the hopes flattened to two dimensions and all the lost love. and these eyes that i can’t see would puff and fill with vitreous humours, and would be the visible sign of my injury, my wounds.

i’d have to bear the evidence of my listless sinking swim through the stained glass-colored flood of memories for many hours and so would be an invalid, a cripple among all the masses whose dams hadn’t yet broken. i’d look in a mirror and revile myself for being so tear-blotched and ugly, and that would justify all the shards of abandonment floating in my historical murk: who would want this creature i've become anyway?

i don’t think i’ll cry. and i don’t know that i want to own the stories that are pressing against the back of my calm face as i sit under the sycamore trees and watch small ants carry huge loads home (i move my book so they won’t have to discover an alternate route to back to the colony.) there is so much more to know than who, in this body, i am supposed to be.