Gelatinous and Alive

Intermission fodder

There are people I know who are deeply invested in the life they have in the now, in this middle finger of existence. They are such dreamy anti-chandeliers (not the ostentatious signature of a chandelier, but a unique, sweet nod to existence). I’m thinking of the chandelier in Tanvi and Animesh’s living room… it speaks so much through its beautiful, often haunted silence.

These tiny raindrops of human beings whose spirits are made of dancing magic. It’s as if we all carry a song moving through us, a happenstance choreo we’re part of. And we play the Muscle Spasm in the parts of Reality that come to stab poetry in its slumber. To overthrow its tyrannical bits and rewrite kisses on the blindfold.

I have loved and lived through the musical parts of this shared-spirit choreography.

I am hungry for the silence that beauty brings, warm fingers dipped in the striptease between the sun and cloudlight. Pausing with my feet while I walk with my eyes. Stairs collapsing under the weight of how much heart I ask life to nourish me with.

My full-bodied fractals of joy, gelatinous and alive. My lovers from ancient and ancient and non-ancient time. A junkyard of moments, because time is a tripper.

It’s a lot to process in this world, isn’t it? The heart breaking at this dead end and that one, shattering at the speed of a theorem failing.

And yet, remembering feels like there is a third hand to my life, to our lives, right now as I speak to you.

The third hand is a metaphor for something vast and immeasurable.

What can be measured is how much life we share between us, and then there’s a door indicating Entry/Exit. (Hello, Sartre. We’ve got to talk, one of these days.)