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22 Feb 2016

Black Lisle Stockings

Look at me. No, really look at me. 


Past the face and the eyes and the expressions and the clothes. Past the present, the situation, where we stand right now. Past everything that attains importance of gargantuan proportions, but is really inconsequential, irrelevant to who I really am. 

See me; really see me.

Past the veneer of self-containment, self-reliance, and strength. Past habits, past words, past little things that you notice me doing. Past the lip-gnawing, the nail-biting, the food-burning, the nail-painting, the socializing, and the seeming detachment.

Look at my soul; look deep into the ball of Life that I am, a million, billion, trillion flimsy  lisle of thoughts, deeds, regrets, hurt, and vast, vast love winding together, almost choking each other, but not quite. A black lisle stocking with massive tears and more runs than can be mended but held together with hope and good intentions. 

Try. Try and take hold of those trillion flimsy skeins that wind together to facilitate the transition from the state of limbo in the black hole of existence to a lighter, more productive state called living. 

Listen to the sometimes steady, sometimes erratic thrum of my heartbeat. Proof of life. Figure out what I am made of, unravel the puzzles of the Universe that my life is part of through my existence, understand what I have been, what I am, and what I have the immense potential to be. 

And then teach me my purpose.