Outside is the flowy sound of traffic. Some creeks in the attic wall. Probably the sun warming up the room. It was cold this morning. Voices of my family in the distance.
A magpie is busy in the view ahead. I don't know her name. And she doesn't know mine. She doesn't know that I am writing about her.
And she doesn't know what knowing is or that she is a she or indeed a magpie. Still it seems a nest is being built.
Spring is here. The tree branches have that shiny clean look, like skin fresh from a cold shower. Ready again. Standing tall.
Reaching towards the wintery spring sun drinking her warmth.
All the love in the whole universe won't touch loving. All the words in the world won't touch writing.
And nothing can touch touching.
It's as what's happening darling. Writing. Reading. Sharing as if to dream we are apart.
Just this. Nothing else. Ordinary whatever is. No really.
Including the thought "yeah but". You cannot escape your own attempt to escape.
For that would be what is.
Call it love, energy or carrot cake.
It's our eternal song going nowhere. The song of nothing full to the brim of everything.
Love ya baby.
