20 Sep crying holes, dripping sockets

I’ve been crying, often. Really, a lot of it. Crying because I dream of motherhood. Because furniture is expensive and mostly ugly. Because everyone left at once. Wong, winter, write, weep – these are words that start with W. On the week I feel the most depressed is the week where I eat mostly Chinese food – and not just any food, but dumplings. Wonton, xiao long bao and potstickers. I didn’t make them myself but they still bring me that comfort of knowing there were working hands behind them. Tough and tender, I love what I do and yet I cannot make myself do it. It happens when it happens but it’s also always happening anyways. I’ve learned that there is no escaping the embodied practice. The unfolding of a Big Change is followed by a parade of Tiny Changes, knees high and clashing cymbals. When the structure shifts, why wouldn’t you rearrange the entire room? You have to let go of the things that no longer serve you. It’s not just an aesthetic, it’s a lifestyle. It’s composition, the weight of details. I often wonder when it will be my turn. My heart is soft and breaking, still. Not as in not moving, but rather the opposite – still as in ongoing as in nonstop as in my muscles are cramping. And so I stand here dripping, the weight of another universe’s gravity on my eyelids and I don’t know. There’s no ending so I guess it’s not over. Ongoing. Nonstop.