I am an unfinished story.  Silent, numb, unsettled, too many ideas confusing me.  Now sensing that there’s a story in not telling a story.  I have stopped trying.  The only rhythm quiet whispered breathing.  Unspoken truth, unwritten words, holding space for whatever may unfold.  It’s uncomfortable, disquieting, humbling.  Not a feeling of failure, rather a sense of relief, an honest moment.  Stories waiting to be told whose time has yet to come.  Not forcing myself to do something, but rather to contemplate, unsure of what will happen, waiting without anticipation.

NOTHINGNESS

Pregnant with meaning
A distinctive quality
Under the surface.