on each finger I’ve written a word. om. krim. kalikaye. namaha. my fingernails chant along with me as I sing into the window. the neighbor closes her door, but the birds chirp in rhythm. there is a symphony, a percussion in this distraction and in this opening. I am busy throwing myself into solutions. busy forgetting problems while creating them. there is a always enough trouble in this world.
I feel myself vibrate. shiver. on a Saturday morning I should be happy. my hands look like an extension of my mind. creating, holding nothing. emptiness is the space in which things are made. everything fulfilled. can someone tell me what is patience?