Moving

No one told me where to go. I picked a direction and went and time passed and I got old. The direction I chose was called "moving" and I was moved to a cell and moved to tears and moved to an apartment and moved and am moving still. Even in my sleep, I am moving. Even when I hold my breath and I tell myself that I am not moving, I can feel things inside me moving. Shifting, more like it, or beating.

No one told me that moving would be so difficult. That I would move and that time would pass and that I would move into old age so quickly. No one told me that when I chose "moving" that when I felt I was going nowhere, that when I felt stagnant, when I felt that things were simply slowing down, I was hurtling, the whole time, past so many things that if I reached out to grab hold of something I would have caught fire. I would have vanished and became air.

I want to tell you something. I want to tell you that we are all moving. Always. Our machinery is slowly breaking down. We are always looking to move one way or another and even when we're looking, we've moved so far already. Move away from me and move towards me, but you are moving still. Move away from yourself and move towards yourself and move deeper into yourself and further into yourself into yourself where you know not which way to move. Be afraid. Feel something other than.

I am moving into hurting.

Homes told me once. He told me, "Go."
And I said, "Go where?"
And he said, "Just move and don't ask questions."