When I blow up the experience of being alone

by sort of filling it up with feeling alone,

is the moment I realize,

how different being alone and feeling alone

are from one another.

It’s just that the more empathic I become with myself,

the more things, like me, step out of

the great waters of reflection with light

still dripping off of them,

to reveal nothing other than a particular absence

begging to be filled in a particular way,

like a splash seen in the periphery asking

who, what, why, where and when,

a great mystery I guess,

that whether things be alive or not,

each sort of shares with me its feelings

and personal histories,

through a kind of reflection that need no light

to reflect the posturing wants

and needs of cultures they have emerged from, 

which I suppose is just my way of saying

there are things I’m afraid to say,

because I know them to be true,

but yet cannot substantiate them scientifically,

and it is these things I most want to say,

and need to say,

and one is I have a deep faith in empathy,

and that it is this faith that is behind

everything I do.

But I still don’t know

if I can ever have faith in a Big Cheese

who created that hole.

I still can’t say for sure I feel God inside me,

and I’m not sure I ever will.

But something tells me that has to be ok, and that

if there were a God, he would want it that way.

At least on the first date.