V. H. King's Ink

thinking of stillness, today:
do not rush. 
go slow. 
take your time.

breathe with your belly and stick 
your tongue between your teeth 
and remember the soft meat of your body 
deserves rest, demands to be cradled 
with care, craves release if only to be 
gathered back again with greater clarity. 

you do, in fact, know what you need. 
and it just might be waiting for you.
sit still, calm the fuck down, and listen 
to what your spiritbody has to say.

                                              what is the sound of a thawing lake? 

that's the thing—I can't hear it. not from inside, 
anyway. but I can see the ice on the surface 
has thinned some. this is a man-made pond, 
so I can't compare it to a larger, naturally 
occurring body of water. 

but there's a sense of water moving deep 
below: of liquid spilling up, splashing out 
of the cold—but not yet. right now 
there's moisture above and below, 
in the sky and on the ground 
and in the air all around. 

it's likely what's got my body feeling 
so heavy today, but I accept the weight. 
I think of the crack and groan of ice 
on much larger lakes, further north:
how it must feel to splinter yourself 
apart 
just to breathe again in the sun. 

it's not the kind of work you can sprint 
through, I imagine. and so I guess 
it's also the work done in secret, 
through lonely gray days and silent 
uncaring nights. it's seeing yourself, 
sewing yourself up, from the inside out. 

it's digging, it's drawing from depths 
you didn't know you had, or could fall into, 
or be lost in. it's the groan and ache of dreams, 
whether shattered or shining. it's the simple 
yet excruciating task of trying again, of getting 
through another today, of taking the next breath.

candle of the day: overgrown cemetery

playlist: AFI, Breaking Benjamin, 
Dead Poetic, Depeche Mode, 
Tears for Fears