A blog and burrow by Nicole Buzzelli
Shapeless
The more lines I draw, the less shape I got. But I guess, the more shape too.
Dear—
This is a love letter. Maybe also a grief letter. Maybe, though, same-coin.
This letter is addressed to you if you want it to be, and it's not if you don't. I think with grief, we sometimes just need a witness. I write this letter in case you do, too. It's been a really hard week. Mostly, I've been coping. My heart's been about the breaking lately. Once this week, it happened that my heart broke all the way down. But then ten minutes later, I thought up a riddle: Fuck, fuck, fuck, how far down does down go if that down wasn't all the way down?
heal is the mountain and the climbing of it
Soul is a place, the fertile lands of psyche. I am a cartographer, mapping it. When I come to terrain that I've made legend, beasts in their own right, I do not hand over my power like I did when I was a child. I have consciousness now. I have tools. I have new ways to relate. Instead, I acknowledge the ways I mistakenly confused my experiences as fixed truths. I bow to these experiences, and to my child-like relations with them, as the mountains they are.
At the End
At the end of time,
I'll sit under the palo verde and let the beetles have their way.
I'll pray that each little
yellow becomes a new sun. But if they don't, I'll let them dapple
around me like little stars
and know that it was enough. I'll let the birds live on in their lightning storm and not worry about them too much.
