Its the strangeness and familiarity,
the beating moments that give tranquility.
Only curiosity arises in my self.
The bone, the muscle and the blood,
the carnal, the naked and the vulnerable.
Your triggers are just apparent.
Without intention,
because we are strangers.
There is this beat,
more so this tone,
in what you push out and what you exist within.
Something of that is also my own.
That has always been there.
That is honest. That is naked.
Just being is right.
Without thought,
there is our existence.
The murmur of ticking movements,
those of internal reality,
and external presence,
You prove that I am here.
We are not together.
We are not one utterance,
No edges that tie us together.
We reside within these orbits,
each our own but just the same.
The muttering of moments,
yours that feel like my own,
and those I long to live.
Why this understanding,
this reconciled, but never met,
matched and matchless ignition,
that resides in my breathe and in my dreams.
To understand oneself through the peace and battles of another.
In an artists mission,
the renaissance of longing to know,
and to have lived with all the moments of being,
someone else to understand oneself.
You might never stumble upon me,
we might never meet,
but we are in parallel,
the straightest of paths,
to be next to each other.