The Window She Opens
I can’t pronounce her name
I can’t remember her face
What would the doctor say?
She opens a window
And lets in rays of amber and yellow
And if I walk in this light
I become myself and something different
I can’t pronounce her name
I can’t remember her face
What would the doctor say?
Well for one—he’s seen her.
One day, torted in ancient posture. From supine, she hugs both her knees and kisses them. The pecks carry the same love that a mother would plant onto her young.
The next, building on movement only days old and already circulating the globe. A commanding spire in an ocean of rhythm.
It wasn’t always like this; there’s been a concerted effort.
“Exercise vigorously, practice mindfulness,” he says. “Do so as if your life depends on it.”
What would the doctor say?
Well for one—he’s heard her.
Syllables tap gently, like morning raindrops on an eastward-facing window.
Concepts emerge and clash like the rapids of a Cascadian river.
There’s talk of music, math, literature, politics, recipes, sciences, art… and cinema.
Ever-reaching depths of thought, both vast and beautiful.
And it’s from these depths ideas breach the surface, gasping like creatures discovering air.
“Creativity and madness,” he says. “The research suggesting the two may be indistinguishable.”
What would the doctor say?
Well for one—he knows me.
And the many masks that I wear.
He knows I seldom take them off.
Only in moments where my lungs burn and my veins pump battery acid.
Or after I’ve counted my breath to 50 and back.
I remember who I was before I ever put one on.
And I’m free.
Free to be astonished.
Free to create.
“Release the stallions,” he says. “These are racehorses, Arabian racehorses. They will win the race.”
I can’t pronounce her name
I can’t remember her face
What would the doctor say?
She opens a window
And lets in rays of amber and yellow
And if I walk in this light
I become myself and something different
I can’t pronounce her name
I can’t remember her face