a surrender

This piece is about my own deep FEAR of crumbling into nothing.
Nothing to carry my existence into the Future.
To crumble into my non existence.

Collapsing into exhaustion. Again and Again. Beaten down to the ground.

By the "forward propulsion"(1) of receiving purpose, to affirm my existence

through projects of success and recognition.

Being bathed, being soaked, dripping from/in LOVE.
 

This non existence might be an existence in itself.

As the shadow world,

the informal,

the homeless,

the helpless,

the useless,

the unemployed,
the sick,

the otherworldly,

the unrecognizable,

the unrequited,

the unthinkable,

the Other,

die Baggage,

das Lumpenprolitariat,

die Tagelöhner
might have always already have been.

Bearing our helplessness in finding purpose.

 

This non existence resonates deeply with my uterus.

An uterus I am at the same time still held accountable for.

I am desperately holding on. Others hold with me. Tight.
I was raised as a soldier to fight for the Good.
For a future community of Equality encompassing the whole world.
I am still carrying the epaulets of whipped cream on my shoulders.
I am strong and marching into the Future.

A Future which got lost on its way.

Communities fall apart.
Into smaller groups, into the nuclear, scattered.
Too obtuse to stumble upon connections of "otherwise" 

already enacted already here." (1)

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LOOK INTO MY EYES! There is no pure song nor dance to be learned!
All the stories told into the former Future are dysfunctional!
I am talking to you through layers of wounds, into layers of wounds.
I want to touch your arm, with one finger, just barely.

Tracing the drawings on your skin.

Yelling across all distances: But we are here together!

Your wedding ring permanently folded into your skin of

your own narratives.

And I cannot convince you of otherwise.

 

 

Someone says: you are not sensitive enough, look closer!
And I start circling around, but I cannot see it!
Maria's wisdom is:
you might have been bright, but you might have not known it,

because you weren't treated that way.

 

I hold on to my eyes. My eyes can see, I look out into the world. Breathing.

Picking up loose sticks on the ground or hanging in trees.

The fallen wood not being property of anyone anymore.
Sometimes others join. Sometimes they leave.

Tying the sticks into bundles, carrying them on our backs.

For a moment we breath with each other.

Sometimes there will be a fire we gather around,

listening to our stories disappear with the smoke.

We hurt each other. We believe it is normal. Self serving.

We learned it early on, so we don't know about otherwise.

Separated, self reliant, alone.

It is quiet here.

I breath into my FEAR.

"So we turn again, to the picking up of sticks." (1)
 

I live in this poverty around/with/in/within you.

(1) Ashon T.Crawley Blackpentecostal Breath: The Aesthetics of Possibility

(Thank you Hana for pointing me to the book.)

 

Contemplating the "I" and the "We" in Simone Weil's The Self: "Humility consists in knowing that in what we call "I" there is no source of energy by which we can rise." as she continues in Human Personality: "But the part of the soul which says "We" is infinitely more dangerous still. (...) A collectivity must dissolve into separate persons before the impersonal can be reached."