There's an issue with this hour. I have been doing well if that's what you refer to tucking yourself inside and hiding from the analogy of love.
A friend had said that they didn't tell me a particular thing about themselves because they thought it'd take me away from them. And I have thought of it again as of how far can one go until the existence wouldn't be a matter of worry. It's not like there's one idea of love that strolls in my body but there is also too many at this point.
I am uncertain. Baba wouldn't understand my idea of love and I wouldn't understand his. I wouldn't ask her the same question because the answer might increase the gap, or I would ask her again because I am already too far away.
In such a way my existence bends to create more distance. It runs away at little ideas of 'holding on'. I had once heard when I was in love, that whatever needs holding on, needs to be left alone. The idea is still traumatic.
How long should one hold on?
When does one let it go?
How far is too far?
How close is too close?
How many poems are too many poems?
How many metaphors to rewrite reality?
How much power is nonviolent?
How much surrender is love?
In transitions, the spoken word artists time their graces and emotions. The audience captivates a piece when the left jaw has struck 3 right after the poem is over. Like an imaginative cry had to cover for all the words written. Like love letters at the end of each kiss for it to shadow the foregone. Like some smoke after rain as it freely trails unbroken.
That's how I am numbered. Right at the outskirts of my life, to shadow the foregone.
What do you call it?
If you can use a metaphor - makes it easier.