I have become obsessed with memory. I keep wanting to tend to it. But not live in it. There is a difference. They appear like stories now, the memories, and I do not want them to be forgotten or lost.
I was merely a boy when they lifted the giant man from the soils of Earth. Like a root vegetable, by his hair. I watched as they slayed the giant. Reports were scattered, but I know what I saw. They slayed the giant because it was opportune for simple glory. But I saw his eyes and they were kind.
I knock on wood. I am racked by worry. I get these crippling moments of worry. So I knock on wood. I breathe. I pray. I knock on wood.
I was merely a boy when I spied a naked woman washing her white dog in Eden. Its dirty fur worked through by her hands with soap and water. She knelt on her knees and it licked at her while she tended to the creature. I was behind a bush when her eyes found mine, her lips curled, locks of mane glowing.
I go on. The days become sweeter. The days are an undeniably ripe fruit. The days slow motion fall back to reveal night, like spread legs. Enter me, they say. Enter me say the nights. So I do. Worry. Gratitude. Uncertainty. Courage to leave behind the crepuscular sadness for brave treasure in the darkness.
I was merely a boy the day I awoke into the body of a man. How lovely. That I am here today, he noted.
