There is No End, Not Really
I’ve been thinking more about writing
going through all my old journals
the brief mental snapshots.
When I really sit with it,
I can’t remember the details,
a pool of murky memories,
the only pieces of evidence left
in some room I will never enter.
I’ve known for a while
all evidence must be destroyed
it shouldn’t even exist.
I ripped out the pages
methodically tearing them into little pieces
this was the best course of action
[Then later] gather up the tiny scraps
spend hours and days piecing them back together.
Hang the pages outside in the wind.
The more I turn this idea over
they have nothing to hide.
That was then - this is now
- let that go.
Pick up where I left off.
Making that first mark…
Without really noticing it,
daily effort compounds.
It changes the texture of how you move.
Choices shape the outcome.
there is no end. Not really.
Lovely poem. Made me think about accumulation and how it just grows, evolves, can become something else.