Self is / I am: a sloppy mess of life, bundled up and spilling out.
Even in the best moments, so many rough edges.
Here I am giving too-long looks and undeserved bitch stares, too-short hugs and unsaid gratitudes. Here I am with too many words and too many silences, with the wrong thing at the right time or the right thing at the wrong time. Cross the best of intentions with the worst of expressions: here I am.
I stand back and back down, judging and measuring myself, always saying to myself: No no no no no no no.
Not for you. Not safe. Not now. Not like this. Not like that. Not yet. Not ever. Not until…
When does until meet with the open space of today, the only time when things can actually happen?
I would never: breach the line, cross the boundaries, disrespect the sacred or the profane.
Until (there it is, until) I look back and see, Oh no, too late. I have already done it. Have said it, have crossed it, have ruined, have failed, have hurt, have disappointed, have been what I said I would not be…
And yet here I am.
Still here, with the Self I was and the Self I am and the Self I am always becoming.
We contain multitudes, I guess, and it’s maybe simpler to open and accept all of them.
Perhaps love all — serve all must start with all that is within me.
Then perhaps it can extend. To others. To the world.
To the outward versions of myself, the reflections and incarnations, every form, near and far, to the Self is / You are.