Interstices

I find myself in the gaps between words. In the interstices, where awareness flows unfettered by meaning and paints a world that does not fit neatly into the dictionary. I cannot shoehorn all of myself into ways of being that end in a full stop. My sense of self stretches beyond this physical body and rational mind. It encompasses the continuum in which I swam before life taught me words and separation, or hormones taught me reactive emotions. And it embraces the experience that I expect to feel as I die, when words and emotions dissolve into the velvet depths of silence.

The growth of years has little meaning for me as I do not experience myself or my life as temporal stepping stones. Some things I knew before I learned them, others came in cycles linking past, present and future. The ways I define myself now are not, explaining how I worked hard to get the money to achieve the thing, or picking over the traumas of my childhood. They are how compassion saves me, how joy surprises me and how I understand that life has no meaning that can be spoken of in words.

Picture by Geralt on Pixabay