Three Second Intervals

I live in three second intervals...

...Storm clouds over a sunset
Purple eyebrows over a single orange iris
Cut by eyelashes of ancient stone...

...I smile for what seems the first time in my life
Heart clear and mind wide open
Do you see it? There! There! is a bird on the telephone wire above me
and I can see its feathers barely moving in the wind...

...The field is dimly lit by the moon
Tall, wild desert grass swaying in the midnight breeze...

...His face is beginning to show the creases of age
Beard gone from a blend of orange, brown, and white, to more and more grey
I see myself in his edges of his cheeks, his lips, and chin
He's real, I think, and so am I...

...Sex is part of the natural course of relationships
But creating another human being is part of sex
Not just hedonism and intimacy and seduction and openness
How could I have never noticed these things before?...

...My mother reminds me of a six year old child,
Holed up in her studio brimming with crayons, yarn, rubber stamps, paper of all shades and textures, scissors which cut round or jagged lines, gargantuan, minuscule, scintillating, obese, skinny pens, and beads organized into thousands of small boxes.
"What are you working on, Mom?"
"I don't know." She smiles and I am infected with whimsical glee...

...I live in three second intervals.

How strange it is to feel my presence in this world slip like ebbing, lackadaisical waves against a shore of reality. To save myself, I retreat from living into a world juxtaposed by Plato's heavens and a keen, reptilian survival mode, but I sneak out, from time to uncertain time, to peek at life when the beast stops howling for the briefest moments. I'm collecting these times, drawing them into a tiny, wool bag and caching them away for a homecoming that may not ever come. These moments of living, these glimmers of light in the emptiness of days falling into endless days, may save me. They will hold everything that I am, stored like my soul's DNA, all information captured and recorded in those precious little gifts, waiting patiently for a time when I can be formed whole again. Locked away from disassociated pain and self, I bury these seeds for aeonios, for a time when the rain has come again, to bathe my body and soul, and renew my roots in this world.