#inversetherapy

Please make them bent and broken in the most creative manner possible.

Make them choose the thinnest ice, hottest potato, slipperiest slope. The blaring-sirens grinning-skull tether's-end madcap freefall.

We seek happiness like a child chasing waves at the seashore, mad dash forward then helter-skelter back running away, unnerved, until a wave overtakes us, overwhelms us, overcomes our defenses, leaves us drenched and gasping. Then there we stand, forlorn, shivering in the aftermath of happiness, desperately seeking that one wave again, oblivious to the vast ocean beyond.

This thread in me is love, and hate Some hungers you can’t satiate. This thread to recall, and forget Fly trapped in amber of regret.

Heart’s secret gardens bloom and wilt Entangled thread of pleasure, guilt. Only wanting what is not, this thread so taut with knots of desire, dread.

This thread to move on, and look back No wish to make whole what I lack. No wish to rush, I will peruse it slow This thread of holding, and of letting go.

In this small pool of sunlight I sit watching a play enacted by motes about how things grow and change, find purpose and lose it.

Only when you look back can you understand that spending time and wasting it are the same thing.

Only when the curtain falls can you see past blinding desperate desire. There is nothing to cling to, nothing to clutch at, you were never the actor as much as you were the stage, you were never the tree as much as you were the earth, you were never the kite as much as you were the sky,

and the chance and the joy of rooted growth of tethered flight of being moved of being seen of being found of having been.

We are all wards of light. Only in the dark places can we grasp that. Light holds out its hand at both ends of the tunnel. Take it. Or let go. It’s the same thing.

if this great outpouring of our souls at times bewilders me it is only because the fecundity of our sharing is the space where pregnant pauses used to reside

our diaries once had locks whispers sieved through cupped hands scribbles secreted aboard paper planes destination one opinions portioned out at dinner tables letters queued up, patiently awaiting the editor’s benediction

now we’ve thrown away the keys now we give ourselves away for free is it because we are so short lived with voices only slightly longer? (like desert blooms, like canyon echoes) yet now they can break down doors crash through ceilings make themselves heard! (like tsunami waves, like downtown traffic)

it feels orgasmic, this unleashing of vocal chords, this raucous symphony this repository of our collective psyche the best therapist we’ve created since God there's nothing we can’t accomplish if attention is the goal, in a manic dream we’ve stumbled upon the nuclear option

They told me time was a river – one flowed with it, until one drowned.

They told me time was an arrow – one flew with it, until it pierced one’s heart.

Last night I dreamt of a grand library. I tiptoed through its gothic masonry looking for clues, and in each book I met a ghost, and each ghost was me.

So now I know that time is a story, and its essence lies not in purpose or direction, but in the telling.

And I have read One Thousand and One Nights, and One Hundred Years of Solitude, I have read The Hours, and In Search of Lost Time. So I am well prepared.

The next time they want to know what I’m doing with my time, I know just what to tell them.

When you think of me, in your mind's eye what do you see?

Am I involved saga or pithy anecdote? Sweet poison or bitter antidote?

Treat or chore? A rare item, desired collectible? Or a mere trifle, some tchotchke, replaceable?

Am I smoke or mirror? Hammer or nail? Am I comedic relief or cautionary tale?

What is my value what do I add up to Is it credit or debit due?

My clay no longer pliant, may it never get too rigid. Now summer’s come and gone, may not winter be too frigid.

I’ve travelled far to learn the secrets of this heart, that home is not a place, in farewell lies a fresh start.

I leave behind the baggage only memories I am taking. Amid the joys, the heartbreaks were just lessons in the making.

I’ve found what I had sought in the river’s each new bend. May these restless feet yet roam, yet be at peace at journey’s end.