By Tanya Martinez-Cardenas
I thought I was writing.
I thought I was thinking of all the words…all these “years.”
I thought I was the one who liked to write,
And yet, they weren’t my words.
To think they were so foreign
So far apart from who I thought I was
To know that something else was doing it all
That was fulfilling some type of script playing out in front of me.
Every time I wake up,
There I am.
There is an unfolding.
My thoughts think the day can be predicted
That it knows each event that will take place,
Until something happens, that sets everything in a different direction.
There is a laughter that comes from deep within
Or at least it comes from somewhere.
It’s not me.
Yet, it's what is being experienced.
How can this body feel so much?
How is my heart able to feel so much connection and energy
From itself and when others are in its proximity?
It happens to someone that isn’t me, clearly.
However, there is an experiencing of it.
All my senses come alive.
They are agents acting like tree roots
Allowing the energy flow of all that is living and breathing
To saturate me completely.
I can feel it all, even when I shut it out.
Something breathes it in and something breathes it all out.
The experiencing of so many sensations, I have come to know as
anger, frustration, anxiety, impatience, kindness, compassion, love—
It’s all here
It’s all here
This body dives in and out of it like water.
The thoughts come with so many ideas
None of them in correlation with what this body does.
There is a detachment, when you look closely.
As the mind moves chaotically,
The body does something entirely different.
How did I not notice before?
There is a story playing out in the head
The body just moves.
Two different things are going on.
Here where time rules,
This happens endlessly
Over and over.
This is a universe where stories cannot exist without time
And time cannot exist without stories.
Master weavers of words, ancient playwrights
Painted this universe with stories from the beginning.
With radio, television, film, the internet, different forms of stories appear and take shape
Through the landscape of time.
The mind says, “I lived through it all.”
But, the body never lives that story.
It was never bound to the mind, time, or stories.
All seemed to be happening to a someone,
When no one was in control
Not the mind
Not the body
Not a me.
No story, no movie ever started or played out.
It was all imagination.
We gave the stories all the meaning, we thought they had.
I could say, “You can wake up now.” But, you have never been asleep or awake.
The Truth is…you have never been.
The Truth is...The Truth has nothing to do with the story.