As I give up the struggle

This is a peculiar temptation.

To struggle.

To  read a sign stuck on a mirror saying:

when you give up the struggle you die

And to then think…

That was not quite the case

when I learned to float

in water.

 

My struggle to be an island nation of my own

on a sea

on a planet

spinning alone

in my own solar system

has been my idea of someone else’s idea.

As I give up the struggle,

I cease to be oppress-able

and complete the undertaking

spanning twelve and a half lifetimes

including this one,

to surrender from the notion

of struggle.

 

Today, I was forced out of a little room painted white,

the one with the faint undertone of blue.

In the room

stood my chair by a window.

And from that room

I watched

my view of the world

as it collapsed around me

to leave me standing in a new nation.

And as I groped for my former walled existence,

I argued for my right to crawl back into it

because here I stood

unprotected

from other people’s bare naked feelings

that wandered through the meadows willy-nilly,

through that wide opened world that once housed my little room.

 

I had grown to love seeing through a window

in a wall,

abutting three other walls

surrounding me.

At this time I don’t want to give up the struggle

so I struggle

to stay in the struggle.

And just now

I have become that meadow

on which my former room

once sat.

And in the early mornings,

I have left my deep dreamless sleep, to awaken to the half-sleep time

under wide blue skies with green,

green trees dotting the green,

green grasses.

I commune with other people’s half-sleep dreams from that place.

The occasional visitor wanders in close

and sits next to me. Sometimes I take his hand.

I imagine byways carrying us back and forth from our fields,

keeping darkness at bay.

I accept this meadow

as me

as much as I can bear,

as I accept how my head gets turned round and round

without notice.

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