Confessions p. 35

What view do your eyes afford?
What strength does your grip lend?
Whose voice says keep going
when you can no longer hold on?
With whose eyes do you look
when your own linger on shadows?
Who speaks inside
when you are speechless?
  Who looks out with your eyes
    -Who speaks with your tongue-
        -Which door unlocks-
           -Which window opens-
What flutters and moves inside you
-when your breath becomes frozen-
when your heart becomes breathless?
With whose feet do you step
when you can no longer travel by foot?
With which thoughts and words
do you build a home
for the nomad in your soul?

Confessions - freewrites III

I sit here with a microscope, a magnifying lens and a camera, swapping pictures, maintaining a little catalogue, curating a magazine of my reveries and fantasies and little fears, I poke and I prod, and I zoom in and rewind and replay, watching and waiting for an ending that isn't there. These little worlds of my imagination, like wheels that keep on turning, and streets that refuse to follow straight lines, meandering as though on some never-ending quest leading to a million and one alleys going nowhere, like a sea of unfinished endings and sentences that run off into sweet nothings, back lanes that lead to back lanes, a labyrinth of whispered words and sidelong glances and empty musings of other peoples' thoughts, as though I care, what do I care, to whom do I cater when I walk in the shoes of memories, wearing the soles thin dragging my feet because I know in my heart there is nothing for me here, there is nothing for me there or then, but I keep looking as though the horizon before or behind me is hiding the key to an imagined salvation, oh the imagination can be the greatest prison ever conceived, oh to be free from musing and reverie and the potent latency of idle thought, oh to be free from the shackles of thought and the shadows of the dark side of the moon where my imagination runs not wild but chained and caged to a pen, why does the soul shrink from its own light, and its own size? What cracks and crevices does it seek out to slip under? What shadows or darkness does it seek to hide from itself? Oh to be free in my own insignificance and greatness, to be unhindered by ideas of what should be, to be unhindered by thought itself, oh to be free, completely free, in my own darkness and light, to stand as short and tall as I am without hunching or jumping or tiptoeing or lowering my gaze or stomping my feet or slamming the door and having to whisper lest someone hear me, really hear me, oh to be free, free to be heard and seen and touched and loved exactly as I am right now, not how I could be, or who or when I will be, and oh to be free to love this moment, exactly as it is right now, not how it could be, or who or when it will be.