I Don't Love Anyone

I love

taking the papers

and laying them out

in spatial order 

on the wooden floor of my kitchen.

I love being able to move

them and understand

their progression

and how this entire body of work

is rising and falling

breathing

because it is alive

and it makes sense

beneath my fingertips

like nothing else

ever will.

Nothing else ever

can.

Because I know this is 

it.

This thing

I am doing right here,

right now.

This thinking

and working

and making things.

This is the most beautiful

thing I can do with my life.

The most raw and pure

and unrefined

and 

free.

I can be this person.

And as I move around these

extensions of myself-

these extensions of the 

world of emotion of everything

that has ever existed or will exist

or anything-

they are the only things

in those gloriously 

free moments that 

matter.

All else falls away

and these ideas

flutter with excited heartbeats

as I can hurriedly take note 

of how things should be.

I can have people say it might

go like this, 

or it could work like that,

but I don't even care

because it can be exactly how my

soul needs it to be.

It is the most right

feeling I can conjure.

By comparison

everything else is pale

and weak and frail.

And meaningless.

Because I can stand

in the middle of my kitchen

crouching over

nine pages

and know

that everything I am doing

in this elongated moment

is perfect.

Nothing will ever feel so much like this

except doing this.

And I want to do this.

For a long time.

Because yes,

I think I can safely say

I have found my passion.

And it's beautiful.