Is made of seventy percent water.

The body I live in

Is made of seventy percent water.

And that’s all I need to hear.

And yet, here we are. And yet I wait for another moment where the day lifts its crushing weight off my lungs and gives me a chance to breathe. I am waiting for a chance to see the open air, to see what used to speak to me in the daylight — and even more so the night. What I was searching for that seems now to be behind me, even though I never saw it pass. Do you remember those days? Stretched out before us like a satisfied lover in your unmade bed. These days went on and on, without a glimpse of an end or a beginning, each just like the next, and the last. With more breath in your lungs than you could breathe, we turned the days into songs and nights into films. Captured but not compressed. Compiled, but not creased or pushed down into the depths. 

Do you think we can get back there? Can we put the genie back in the bottle, open the present again? You can listen to Christmas music any time of year, you know. Nobody is stopping you from pursuing the truth. John Lennon had several points to make. Let us see what’s left inside — inside the box that can still be opened, inside the compressed lungs holding on to a last gasp or two.

And so let us not let this be it. Let us not let this day, whatever day it may be, pin us to the ground until some fateful December morning. Let us open the box ourselves, and see what is to come. 

Let us see that we are already a gift, just as we are.

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