Sunday, September 20, 2015
We come together and we come apart
I know you think of me as the most together person you know, but
You don't think of me as the most together person you know?
You're concerned, for instance, when I respond to things that you didn't actually say?
Er, well, I thought you said it.
Perhaps you just coughed or something. It is very hard for a writer to make out what his reader might be saying. It all gets a bit muffled, and sometimes when you're just, for instance, taking a sip of coffee, it sounds a lot like you're asking an important question.
So pardon my interruption.
I guess then this means that you do, actually, think of me as the most together person you know. I mean, since there were no interruptions on your part. But I'm not sure how you can think that. Perhaps you don't know any other people? Or maybe you have found that the bar for people being "together" is low.
It is, I guess. The bar for people being "together" is ever so low. I have always been impressed by how no matter how "together" any person has seemed to me, if I do a little digging, or if I just spend some time with them, I will come to some huge part of them that's unraveled. Being able to see to the worn holes in people is a dangerous toy, and a wicked tool, unless you use it to crank open your heart.
Here we are, seeing everything, right now, to the center of the universe. Here I am, the most together person in the world, and I am mostly stitching. Every break in us lets the light in.