on allowing
after a few months

in the train home just before christmas: I feel different
after a few months of moving every day
to be awake
vibrant in the cells
in breath
to witness patters and ruptures

it created a different perception of being me, sitting here
and it feels so good
what else remains? the thought, that it is not enough to feel good
and the desire that it could be enough
enough to legitimise all the money i spend, all the actions I pursue
to justify my right for peace and joy, for appreciation
for sadness and pain

then, I would be free
I sit down to write about how

I let myself be seduced in a state of awareness below my conscious control
what a dangerous place, what a suspicious momentum this is
all sort of things could happen

for example

I could develop a passion for what I find in this place
just by listening to my body and observation of my imagination
I would risk to feel good but look stupid
because feeling good doesn’t necessarily translate in a stylish way
so I risk loosing the momentum of style

and even more

I could loose my ability to care about the look of

and even more

I could loose my ability to differentiate between the feeling
and the looking
I could think that it is actually already enough
no need to lift a finger
just passion for it
no need for result

hold on: no need for result
what a suspicious thing to think
that I even
could learn to take care about yourself
even though
it is not an extreme situation
I stop to build legitimations for my feelings
I just feel them

after so many minutes, summing up to hours
maybe days
of waiting, on the floor
waiting for impulse to grow

of softening into the space
of getting out of the way of my physical self
of duets of space within and spaces without
of duets of breath and movement

I forget how to fit into rhythm that feels external
if I try: it hurts and
I feel useless and not functioning and
like a coward and
like a fool and

after many tryouts
of allowing to be a coward
I feel a shift of concept
neither right or wrong
but maybe right
a strange kind of