The contradictions are becoming stark in the contrast of their existence. The root of my name is the cause of his amusement, which somehow hurts a part of my pride I haven’t yet reconciled. My heart is feral in its needs, as basic as the beating of muscle and movement of blood, resplendent in all the glory of the love it has to offer.

I haven’t just won this peace of mind, I have earned it. With flesh and wounds and glass shredded back down to sand, a million scattered pieces that I had collected ceremoniously, put in a basket overflowing with the burden of knowing. Perhaps a little too earnest, he told me. Perhaps he is right, although I have never fully been able to figure out what ‘too much’ actually means. I’d like to think that the exchange of whispers and childhood memories handed to me in trust meant something, even though I have long accepted the disappointment that often such fleeting moments are just that – fleeting.

I stand at a cross roads, or perhaps I have already crossed it, taking neither path and instead paving my own. One that is slippery with the tincture of my reality, solid with the bare honesty that comes to me easily. I’m taking the time to slowly figure things out, taking the time to fill the emptiness of my house with things that matter to me – things that reflect accurately the lines of my inner architecture. I am trying to figure out where I stand beside myself, what I have to offer to a world that moves on and doesn’t look back.

With the alms I put away every pay cheque, I plan to buy fruits and sandwiches and supplies and walk the streets of this downtown core and hand them out. The most direct supply to demand chain that I can think of, the best way to give directly to the hands of those who need it. Sometimes the best way to make myself feel better is in the service of others.

**

Photo: Vancouver Art Gallery, 2012