As far as I can tell, I brought nothing in with me when I came into this world...perhaps because I also came out of this world...so full, lacking nothing.
I opened my eyes, and there were no questions or comments about who or what I was, what being is, why, where, how. I didn't have to take it all for granted, or be grateful...I didn't have to make a life. I was not large or small, significant or insignificant, special or ordinary.
I learned the power of storytelling, and that in the beginning, was the word. Any word. Entrancing! How could I not love this? I fell in love with stories, all of them--fear stories, love stories, tales of craziness and bliss. I got lost, got found, got lost again. Split myself into many, many storied pieces. What horrifying fun!
I don't know if I just got tired, or...whatever...one day, there I was, without the main character. No personhood, and nothing to say about it. It was just fine. Eventually, I thought I was insane, but I was just telling myself tales around the fire, as had become my custom. It turns out, I am one of the "sanest" persons I know! I like it that way. It balances out the "insane" aspects of my story...which happen when I believe the plots to be real, and seek the late afternoon sun with my blanket, so I can lie down, give in to an intense pressure, and cry myself empty.
My mother's crazy dog plops down on my blanket, licks a tear off my face. She sighs for me. I realize it's done, and am so relieved. A soggy laugh comes out. I have no plan, no ending. I don't know who I am anymore. This doesn't seem to affect anything in the slightest. The dog is still being utterly doglike, the porch is falling apart, the sun is making my right arm, and vice versa.
I can't construct a serious story and believe it. I have tried, a few times, earnestly. By this, I mean that I can't pin myself down, say I am this or that, or that I somehow know the beginning and end of anything in life. When I talk to people and we are busy making up a storyline, attempting to characterize Maria and Whomever in some role, the whole process is glaringly apparent as what it is...fear, attachment, offense, defense. Emotional manipulation is often pulled out as a subtle tool to accomplish a scene. It's like being a stagehand at a magic show. I know how these things are done, as they unfold...I could be very distressed, amused, offended...only if I believe the show is real. Manipulation? Same as the pattern in the palm of my hand, or a leaf blowing down the street, or the calculus I don't speak. It seems there is no harm done if I buy into the play, or if I just watch. Plays are plays.
I have nothing left to do, but there is no boredom. I make deadlines, still, that I try to meet, and function as if, as if, this is very serious business, but it isn't. It never was. I never was. I seek affection and give it for the same reason trees sway. I don't have any reason to feel what I feel. I notice that there is a tremendous amount of spontaneous poetry that comes out of people, any given moment in any situation. Maybe this is as good a reason as any!
When I leave, there will be no baggage...my hands will be empty, and my heart full. That's my story. :)