Sitting, legs crossed, trying to catch up with the blur that accompanies each inhale. Sitting, wondering why each one carries so much color, so much wonder, so much life, and yet knowing each one is never accompanied by breath. Inhale and breath--these don't always go together. So, sitting, trying to catch up with the blur that goes with each inhale, wondering why each one lacks the breath its supposed to signify. Angry and confused in the same inhale, holding it in with the hope that if it stays long enough it might leave when I inevitably exhale. Angry at lessons never learned and identities never stabilized. Angry at the drive--with each inhale--to be the universal in the particular, and realizing that drives leaves one with neither. Not willing to be another part in the particular, but unable by an infinite measure to be any sort of universal. Sad at the hurt that each breath means for you--for all--and wishing I knew what could be done to--no, not stop the "breathing"--but to let it begin for the first time. Left with the choice to let the hurt sting your lungs--my lungs--lungs--to trust they can take it--or, to try again in futility and in selfishness. Sitting, legs crossed, listening to my heart beat in the stillness of absurdity.