Like a beetle stepped on, you ooze out of yourself,
and you little scrap of carapace and adaptability is meaningless.
-from Notebook of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke –
What’s skin? What’s inside and outside? What will ooze out when some giant thing step on me? Blood and indistinguishable fluids mixed with organs and flesh, and some bones. That will be me, coming out of my skin. That will be me, spilling out my guts.
Will that be all of me? All of my past, my present, and my future? My anguish, my troubling thoughts, my sleepless dreams, my secret wishes and no-brake longings or yearnings, my stubborn mind sometimes up against my intense feelings, my will and patience which can grow a watermelon out of a pumpkin seed, the people I buried in my heart, the faces I see when I close my eyes with the throbbing pains in my chest, the smell and the touch I am still holding onto, the sweetness of those words and voices, the sunshine, the breeze, the music hung there like a morning mist for those moments, the road, the road alone, the road together, the sadness that almost killed me in that grey spring with all the buds coming out, those things I’ve done so wrong and those things still undone, the life lived fully, or the life barely touched, the sweat, the tears, and the laughs, the heartbreaks, and the soul limping days, longer nights, the dawn, the dusk, my poor reflection on the water, my lengthening shadow at the end of the day, the asphalt, the fluff of my white dog, the wagging tail and spotty pink paws of him, his jumping on the green field where the green couldn’t be greener, the disappointments of life, still believing the absurd human beings, the broken promises, the untied knots, all sorts of flowers laid on Ellen’s table I didn’t catch the names, the joy of the unexpected encounters blooming someway in time, the delicacy of human interactions and their fragileness, or their tenacity, the hopelessness of my hopes, and the shamelessness of my desire. Oh, my eyelids that can’t quite cover my eyes blazing like torches in the inky black nights searching for a strand of light giving the meaning of my existence.
Will all of those ooze out and disperse in the air when my blood is spattering like red roses in the wedding aisle? If one can really break out of the skin, what will that be?
<October 14th, 2016>