It’s coming. I feel the beginning if it creeping up my throat and I’m forcing myself upright. Wide eyed I straighten my neck and look around to see what I can anchor myself onto to ride it out. But it’s already here.
And I’m pulling the thick continuous threads of mind and heart out of my mouth, and not being able to stop for the sheer wonder of it. Like coming apart and together at the same time. The momentum has grasped me. Pulling the threads, wrapping its lengths around my hands, and then my arms, and then looping it at my feet. And it’s still coming. With each tug I’m asking myself: What are you made of? How much is there? Is this in anyone else? How much do they have and what is theirs made of? But don’t ask when it will stop, we know now it always does but it’s a wild high while you’re pulling yourself apart and together, before you know you’re spending yourself, but never mind that.
I can make so much with this. Can’t you imagine? I could sculpt expression on a face that would make you weep to gaze upon. I could line coats to warm a nation through their barest seasons. I could make a doll so sweet and friendly that no child would ever have to feel alone. I could guide the blind home safely everyday, a rope to keep them from being lost and in the dark. I could string instruments, and bows to drag across them, and be a part of the shaping of music. I could weave blankets to wrap lovers in, and thereby shelter the sanctuary of love. I could make a net to catch fish in. I could make a sail to catch wind in. I could make a book to catch thoughts in. I could make and make and make, until the weight of that which is now without is very noticeably heavier than that which remains within. And if I had any sense at all I’d fashion a noose out of the last length I pulled up out of myself. Because then I will be empty, and it’s such a tedious pain after knowing the fullness I have.