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I am what comes before sand and sandstone
Chickens and eggs.
I am the unproven truth
On which all proofs depend.
So why this stirring, this painful urge
To emerge through the cosmic pelvis?
Why this wanting to breathe thin air,
To play in the dirt, to shave wood, to cleave to flesh?
To make friends I could lose,
To share love that could break,
To mingle in blood and spit and mud?
On this side I am a wingless angel floating,
Sustained by all that surrounds me,
Breathless in bliss, in timeless sabbath rest.
On this side, I am someone else’s idea.
All that without will or effort is, I am.
Out there are choices to be made:
Laments or laughter, caresses or crosses.
Out there are surprises —
Unspeakable horrors, ineffable ecstasies.
Out there is a Way,
Narrow or wide, slippery or safe?
Out there I dread, but yearn to go….
Out there is Christmas.
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