Sand and Pearls

I’m sorry, Lori

that I haven’t written more of my herstory.

Sometimes I think it’s important and I begin.

but then I know it’s not.

There are so many words!

all over the world

words and words and words and words.

Why should I add to them?

…just so that future generations will have more words  to sift through for meaning?

sometimes I think my Self might be important

and that maybe I should tell someone about it.

But then I know that it isn’t at all.  Really.

I really am Nobody going Nowhere.

…and I like it that way.

For what self would I describe?

there is no Me.

Only things that (i) do.

and then they’re over.

Perhaps something remains of what I’ve done:

…a loaf of bread

…a clean floor

…an insight

..a laugh

…music

…a polished piece of silver

…some comfort

I hope so.  It’s good to think that the small acts of my self leave spoor; little snail trails of being and becoming through the world

But then they’re over.

I only consist of things that are over

recently

or long ago.

even the quivering waves of this moment are soon over, become herstory, and exist only in

(my increasingly unreliable) memory.

my other self consists of possibilities

some plausible and probable

some not

and soon this middle-aged woman scribbling in the night will be over, too.

And that will be good.