this i that was me…
This I that was me is in a way of becoming.
Part of something else.
It is hard to explain.
Watch. Listen.
See. Hear.
The way of it – not what you think.
There is no birds-eye view.
No forest. Only trees.
No ocean. Only waves.
Broad map of it, no; map is not the territory…
Scars, accumulate.
Love, accumulates.
All add to the weight of it.
And weight brings you down.
But in the moments racing by, that is not what you know.
You think, only: in this second, I suffer.
Not: I am dying now.
- Levin
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