Under the Duvet
Rationalising the weight of the wait.
The weight of expectation, anticipation; the weight of a corporeal mass and it’s possible potential.
The heaviness of heaving this weight of water, fat, and sinew into a respectable, functioning being — why is it so hard to just be?
To float lightly — skim the surface, libelule-like — gossamer thin — irrelevant to anyone but oneself?
I am lead in my efforts to age well — plumbing the depths of moderation obsessively to fulfil the brief — the legacy of my kind: live the long, healthy, happy existence that others died for so that you can.
Ungrateful? No — grateful I am to be here, now, thriving. I have arrived. I am here, doing it — doing what others can only dream of.
It’s not enough though — and the weight of this knowledge bows me down.
Picasso said it — his last works are testament to his striving to stay travelling: search for your five-year-old self — unlearn what you know. Be guileless, be open — never stop looking.
I am an artist. Everyday, I show up to play. I look so others can see — I make so others can imagine.
I love my life — yet yearn for collaborators — for those who understand why — the ones who are busy doing, being, flowing…
Because the others are heavy and the effort needed to lighten their loads can overwhelm.
Meanwhile, the wait for a legacy — the wait for an approbation that will never come.
The weight of time.
The wait.
No time.
