VERONICA LEE

Is it possible that I am empty?
That all the cells and molecules
of my existence are actually
the void itself?
My mere witnessing of self
seems to make me so.
And others.
And life's happenings.

I witness.
I feel.
Oh, yes, I think therefore I am, right?

But what if I wake up from a dream
that felt so real with its linearness
and multi-faceted characters,
and sensations of real pain and orgasm,
only to be relieved - or saddened - it ended?

Would the true I feel the fogginess of
swollen eyes and roll over to check the time?

Would morning still be morning with its 
crispness and wonder of what's to come?

That true I - whoever she is -
might not be a she at all.
No periods, no menopause, but 
also not the gloriousness of
pregnancy and childbirth.

I wonder...
or at least I think I wonder,
as this could be the wonder of the dream.

If that is the case then why can't I fly?

Now that I think about it, I haven't
flown in dreams for a long time.
Let me tell you of the flying dreams
of my she-character.

They began at a young age, launched in flight,
barely out of reach in fear and escape.
As horrific as my water swimming, I could
hardly doggie paddle, an embarrassing effort.
Some kind of chase. Some threat.
Often within a big building and no where to escape.

As I grew my flying became more easeful, 
but still a necessity of escape.
By my late twenties I had mastered flying.
No longer hovering above heads, 
I could move amongst the stars
though the sense of the earth's shield
containing me here was palpable.
I even began teaching others to fly.

But now my butt is anchored heavily 
on my couch, my eyes swollen 
from aggravated dreaming.
A dull headache worsened by 
pancakes and syrup because -
well, it's Saturday and I owe 
myself pancakes and syrup.
Eaten to fill that emptiness
and aggravation.
An emptiness that longs for more.

"Fill me," it aches.
Like the void itself.

I hear her.
I hear her called to be filled.
She needs the matter to
take up her emptiness.
And it tries.
But no matter how big
or scrumptious or sharp
or willing, it can never fill 
the void.
It only pretends to touch her.

And she is left
​contemplating
her emptiness.

Direction.
Forward, never back.
As back implies negative,
to be less than empty.
But memories are full,
rich with scent and emotion.
Yet forward is the goal,
the go-to, the place where
we all must strive.

Strive.
A compassionate gesture,
softer than a command,
holding space for evolution.

I imagine stillness.

The present.
Sometimes it seems less tangible
than memories or plans.
The comfort of planning,
especially when infused with
the intention of striving,
wraps my present
in a thin veil of better.

Better is always better, isn't it?

And then there is contentment.
That evasive striving for
contentment of my now.
But now can feel so...
ordinary.
Unspecial.

I long for special.
Special moments.
Special connections.
Special conversations.
Special dreams.
Special interests.
Presently, interests barely pique
through the ordinary.

Perhaps memories of
what was supposed to be
pull them toward negative.

We are told we must stay positive.
Positive thoughts.
Positive outlooks.
Positive attitudes.
Staying above that line
where zero sits.

But I am that zero.
I find comfort in that big round circle
that protects me.
Allows me to balance
at the fulcrum point.
Looking toward negative, 
past and less than.
And, whenever I choose,
setting my gaze toward positive,
future and more.
From this vantage point
I can look up or down,
allowing my focus to soar or plummet.

I so recognize the multitude
of dimensions, likely beyond that
singular point I imagine as me.

Encircled, I can soften into what is.
I can experience directions as
merely invitations to move
beyond the nothingness.