The door speaks with its mouth shut in a language of knocks, but is quiet soon as it opens up. I feel it is an introvert.
The windows wave and often slam aloud or spew raging winds, unwelcome critters and dirt to demand attention. I feel they have ADHD.
The ventilators are either asleep or awake for they do not know what twilights are; they are just their own self. I feel they are the wallflowers.
The staircases never move but always urge a haste. They look up, look in front but never can make up their minds, if they go up or they come down. I feel they might be bi-polar.
The floors, oh them floors- they are Atlas-esque and bear with everything, everyone as a weight upon their shoulders. Creaking at places, sinking in some; I feel they are depressed.
The walls pretend to shield, to protect but often fail. They don't let go, unless the doors speak up or the windows wave. They cannot move on, nor forget. I feel they are stubborn.
The ceiling however, sees them all, sees it all and never discriminates nor does it interfere. It covers them all and keeps them together with an all encompassing benevolence. I feel it is the consciousness.
The arriving dawn of that morning, The departing dusk of that evening. We the emptiness, within the empty, Still, tranquil, calm and cellularly aware. Aware of the silence resonating within The cluttered echoes of the chore That has comes to pass as life and living.
Aware of the frightening contentment Of no possessions or chases after them. Aware of the rarefied viscosity of the air Which we breathe in absence of rushes. Aware and afraid of the atomic vastness Of this emptiness and our inconsequence.
Aware truly of beginnings and culminations And the continuity of rebeginnings of culminations. Aware of a universe which awaits in a blink And cycles through existence and illusion With every deep breath and sighing exhale. Aware of the only permanence of impermanence And the futility of craving what is mere material.
Aware of the simple complexities of our responsibility Towards the life accorded to us by the cosmos. Aware of the elusive line which tries to separate What it is to be happy and what it is to be content. Aware of everything being stardust of some death And destined to be stardust again for a nebulous birth.
But aware most acutely of you, sharing this emptiness And realizing life is meant to flourish in dualities. Aware that as we strive for our duality to unite, Our identities to fuse distinctly as a singularity, We are entwining into each other as the warp and weft Of time, weaving our very own nucleic emptiness.
