How are you?


Such a question; how am I? Should I politely retort “Great, thank you for asking”? Or should I be palpable? Would my authenticity take you aback or would it soothe your hunger for genuinity?


Well I continue to exist, my limbs and heart intact. Despite a lifetime of gravity and circumstance pulling at each sinew- if only own a piece to call theirs. All theirs.
I used to call mutiny when I deemed my bodies actions betrayal; envious of
those that’s endurance and strength rivalled my own. Tired, from an age I couldn’t fathom to count, a mind that doesn’t quit, a heart that will never stop dreaming; and a body of whom can not seem to keep up.

This is only half truth.

This body, I am learning is one of my greatest teachers; setting boundaries and guidelines where my thoughts and soul could not. It’s language I have yet to come even close to fluency.

“I am okay.”

Weathered spine, wary fingers, by me it’s keeper my heart is sloppily handled; each day it fractures once more, yet continues to rebuild resilient.

How are you? I picture my reply, as a metaphor. Wishing that -if only- I could project the visuals from one imagination to another.
First thought, a scribble. A scribbled piece of paper torn from my journal, the paper once contained an elaborate story, an article, composition, disquisition, manuscript. Something I had fashioned, poured my soul in to, but then locked myself in to, bound to the bindings of a book I embodied again and again.
I wrote this story a long time ago, and lived it again in a time dim and distant.
It’s not lost, it’s just a chapter finished, so on to the next one. My desperate clutch only lessens it’s potency and stagnant water attracts cruel insects don’t you know?

Devouring an anatomy not yet fated to die along with the story that so desperately needs to.

“I am well, thank you”

This is the real true true. I am not good, or great; I am well.
Again let’s go with the minimalist metaphor. The tales of my previous carnations: closed and folded, safe within myself- I remember them with a sense of pride and a warm regard. Added to the chronicles.
There is a blank piece of paper, still safely embedded in my note book, although I scribbled so ferociously on the previous page, it’s permanently etched on to this new one. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Memory and wonder deeply seeded in my eager yet patient spirit of adventure. This page; it’s neoteric, fresh and most of all mine, mine alone to write, draw, or even scribble more if I wish.

Maybe I’ll make a paper crane


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