Other
Filling up the holes, the gaps, the spaces between. Isn't that what we do? As we get older slowly by slowly our stuffing falls out, seams bust, and we seek those that refill and stitch up the wounds. Nothing comes for free, and nothing comes from nothing. And everything at a cost and we are never the same. Shifted, re-settled, discolored, recolored, puffed up and pulled out. Smelling of others that have touched us, sweet and acrid. I fill up on red asian cats, cool striated greens, and fragmented bits of modern art paintings. Should i leave them empty, open to any passing views? Just be. Don't fill, just be. Be at one with youself. Complete in yourself. We are whole and perfect. At any time. Shhh, I can't hear that right now or maybe ever again. I am lesser without the other. Like a fallen tree in a forest with no one around. Unheard. Perhaps not even existing.
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