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.