I remember the last time I existed.

 

I was wearing striped pants
& seated cross legged on a park bench
in Western park, Ponsonby.
My shift was over
    my blood circulating
        & I found myself, cross legged,
on the edge of a rain storm.

I closed my left eye—
    & the world was fuzzy with drizzle
    a pitter patter on my right cheek
        a drip drop from my eyebrow.
I closed my damp right eye—
    & the world was clear
    & royal in great berth of air
        I beheld stillness.

 

I opened one wet eye one dry
& right down the middle,
between that hill and the big tree
was a rainbow—
splashing her face
in the rain & drying off with the sun
she was bright I was cross legged—
    it was as it should be.

 

I thought to myself,
    my right shoulder damp,
    my left sleeve dry,
how great, how grand
to bear witness to this!—
how perfectly capital it is
to be human here.

 

It’s been hours,
days,
since that last existence.

 

In the meantime,
I’ve filled my mind with
wondering
if I am existing.

 

Endless
circular
wonderings
fueled by productivity
and to-do lists
and the responsibility
that comes with this reality
that I hope I can change.

 

It’s all so real
until I remember it isn’t—
I exist when I forget
to question existence.

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