Untitled, 2004

I counted 24 days since I first started writing. Love can’t be counted or re-created but if I stay out in front of it, I can make space for myself. But then I’m alone, no longer among the living. You  urged me to look  to myself,  not to identify  with others,
 

their emotions, or needs. And I did that for 24 days. Each day, a bird hit my window and reminded me that I once let them in too. If I give too much away, it’s not the heart that is depleted but the eyes with all the noticing. My eyes used to take up my entire head. Now they are two dots. It will take a year for them to grow back. But when they do, they will no longer be able to move. You once said, we are born as nouns not verbs. I emptied myself for 24 days and I have nothing to show you but two holes.
 

Hole is still a noun and a verb. So is desire, stroke, silence. After 24 days, I am still trying to be a noun. Not help, question, or hope. Maybe hope is the door of depression. How hard it is not to put wings on everything. Evening, window, soul.