INTANGIBILITY
Interiority disperses us, makes us thin and nothing like threads of wind. We spill inward, into a void. Where our body is only an outline containing something intangible. Something like air, an emptiness with texture. Where our deepest mystery resides. The question of what we really look like. That we exist as an embodied nothingness, eroded by currents indifferent to us, time moving and effortlessly changing us constantly. But in experience we instinctively seek things to embrace, to be held in place so we might see ourselves, if even for a moment.
What love becomes. So much of which is remembering the shape of things. Of feelings, memories, people. That we can hold something that would dissipate. But in doing so our mystery unravels. Love is not only joyful holding, but the terrible bittersweet nature of what a memory really is. Absence made form, echoes of things. Shapes of afterglow, indentations in nothingness. That to be remembered means we leave, and ultimately we have to accept our mystery is to remain so, fundamentally intangible.