I think it’s under
the skin, peering at activity, tugging, pulling, yanking towards depression. I think
it’s the self, irritated, trying to overcome absurdity. the play of the same stressors—the
same routines—the same adorable people. it knows security. it needs security.
it shuns security. much contradiction, by valves of life, with miracles
becoming acceptance. light anguish, lime green hopes, when unsuspected, raw,
primal susceptibility. “You must be kidding.”
unpredictable electricity. human
chemistry. our insides awakening suddenly.
maybe we need rescuing. maybe! until
we decode the combination. the uneasiness in something easygoing—the reality of
incompleteness—faucets have leaks.
I think it’s under the skin, right at
consciousness, seated in the frontal lobes. it’s us, I presume, not something
possessing us, but also a little imposing in us.
consciousness, we nudge at. accordions
in church. something most centuries have chased after.
I presume its identity. we call it
spirit. we consult it, admonish it, seek it out for advice. some strange language passed down through
greats, sages, the Vedas.
I was eerie. I knew something was
askew. we dare not unravel operations.
deep togetherness. singleness of mind.
super-concentration. what are we pointing at? something called self. given great
consideration in Hinduism. what is St. Paul battling with? we call it spirit.
