It’s been five years.

Five years ago, she left. Five years ago, I shattered. Five years and I am not healed –nay — I’m not even healing. I am more broken.

And thank God.

I’m breaking so open the universe might fall into the chasm of my heart.


This is what I fear.

This is what fears looks like in a culture that holds the possibility to disappear.

When we had village, when we had ancestors, when we remembered; there was no non-being, nor being. When we remembered, there wasn’t a self separate from everything else. A self that in it’s loneliness clawed at whoever met it with a smile, begging for the love that would make the possibility of disappearing go away.

But we forgot.

The gifts of identity became our taking.

And as we pray to the God of our uniqueness, we fail to see that without the others, being different is not-being.

Ghosts — the material vacuous of never was.

I see the others.

I try to speak.

Fumbled sounds emerge, incomprehensible even to me.

I listen.

And listen.

I don’t understand. I’m behind glass. I can see their mouths move, but all I hear are my own gasps.

I don’t know how not to be single.

It can’t be love; It must be.

But it won’t look like her — she disappeared. Back to the place where dreams come from.

I can’t tell when I’m awake anymore. What to search for? Go inside-out.


Thank you for your witness.

I need you.

A longing that makes me unwillingly present.

A sadness without the need for explanation.

A beauty precisely beyond understanding.

It lands because I consent.

Written by

Storyteller. Filmaker. Artist.

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