containers

my love, it does not fit into the containers these constructs and systems demand. my love, it swells and spills, often making a mess of things.

i take this mess and start to play.

push a little here, pull a little there, until an image begins to appear - like the portraits conceived of by Vik Muniz in his Wasteland projects made of rubbish from the world's largest landfill.

i do not mean to say my love is trash, rather that it has been used & discarded from time to time. rather, that it no longer functions as it did before and i am not quite sure how to make use of it anymore.

i look for places it might fit, clumsily forcing rectangular pegs into a round holes. with enough pressure, it might fit for a while, but parts give and bulge awkwardly in many places until it ruptures.

though, like water, it can assume the form of the vessel it is poured into, my love is ultimately formless. like light, my love fills and warms cold rooms, illuminating what has been shrouded by darkness.

my love, my love is not my love. it does not belong to me, rather it runs through me like a river runs through the land on its return voyage to the sea - energy returning to source.

my love, my love is not my love.