gaps and lack thereof

I found ten Buddhist books in a box this evening from when I was naïve. I don’t think I was naïve I think I was right. They all make sense to me now, at least enough to trust what brought me to them in the first place.

The TV’s blaring downstairs. No one cares about your intimate relationship with your tenth, fourteenth, sixteenth years, you’re pathetic.

I found a crumpled picture tonight, with the woman who took my virginity’s letter on the back. She said a good picture of her is rare, Facebook begs to differ or maybe I’m lonely.

I found a dreadlock tonight. It was the only one I didn’t throw into the wilderness, sitting in lotus in the Animas Valley, chanting for impermanence.

This evening I found a dried rose I couldn’t get rid of if I tried. I hate flowers.

I found a cap tonight. The kind of cap that goes on the top of an eyedropper. When I was sixteen I threw it into grass after taking four drops of acid. Two weeks after that I was discovering Buddhism as a result, and I was smoking a cigarette in the grass, and I looked down and I saw the white cap. It didn’t look as much like a tooth then and I became obsessed with sanity.

I’m obsessed with sanity. That becomes clear as I stumble across more photographs of all the people who I’ve been drawn to in my life. I only understand now that I’m drawn to their sanity. It holds me like nothing else can.

The gap was filled tonight. The story is complete. I am grateful.