I took one year for myself—
and nothing more.
One year within, with-out—a gap, a chasm, a space. A-void.
In some ways wasted sand, perhaps. But in the deeper soft tissues, in the organic beatings of consciousness, in the everyday ways, a blissful pause of human experience. Un-recorded. Un-examined. Un-polished. The slow crumble of an obdurate posture once rigidly fashioned from the fragments of a colorful heritage and a broken home, determined to force meaning into a stunted frame. An intentional rending of the delicate fabric to discover the raw, the genuine, the one…