Stillness

Stillness, a privilege so easily forgotten.
Forgetting, an act of choosing to live in impermanence.

I didn’t want to die. I would never miss life.
Without my body, I would have left this place long ago.
Because I look beyond this state, before this attachment,
I see bare skin, flowers, wrapped in knotted hair,
A kneeling woman, pressed to the earth by the weight of her scars.

I remember; I accept that this is eternity;
Whatever lives forever never started in the first place.
Sometimes dead is better. Can you remember being born?
Can you remember resting in stillness? How did you forget?

Do you remember losing everything that would ever matter,
For the first time? Your skin and bones, lowered into dirt,
Entering the privilege of forgetting that you had ever lived?
I didn’t want to die, but it’s happened a thousand times before,
I would have left this place so long ago, but this soul craves rest.
This soul enters torment, destroys itself to be witnessed again.

I fall in love with a poem, which has been written by other hands before.
In stillness is the loss of life; forgetting is accepting to die again.