When This Becomes Plural

This is where I write...

Me, waiting for the subtle change of light...waiting for just the right timing of verb, noun, and paper shredder.

This is where I could learn to consume vast quantities of alcohol or visualize the better sides of mental illness. This is where six rocking chairs lull me into satiation and where the horizon lands at bay.

This is where I wonder, always to myself, if energy can not be destroyed, if it can only be transformed...then what becomes of our memories, our experiences, and the dedicated attention of emotion? What form do these things take after the passage of our journey?

This is where everything begins. And where everything always seems to end.

This is what just passing through looks like when you finally stayed.