Thank You For Feeling

It hurts.

Or it hurts just until or feels numb and cool against the air, the presence of something intangible taking over the sharp sensations.

Black ink into the skin, forming shapes and creating seemingly from nothing. Four corners of a square, the lines of paper edges flipping open; an idea made solid.

A little black book, etched into the planes of body canvas, somewhere visible enough to see any time we changed, any time we washed. Seen, but more personal. A reminder to bring back the vortex of silent noise in our head. Chatter in the skull, like the pre show audience, just waiting for the stage curtains to open.

A little black book, pages slowly opening, the performance each night, each morning, and Sunday afternoons. Orchestrated words and thought; abundance, gratitude, appreciation, gentleness with all things soft and course. A stage shared for what we call good and evil, the play we all love to watch.

Eventually, the curtains draw, and the audience murmurs back into reaction. Sometimes loud and unabashed, sometimes silently weeping, but always full of love for the show, throwing their souvenirs of proof through the vaults of the universe; smiles from a stranger, bird song outside a morning window, warm food in hungry bellies. A thousand valued papers from 20 strangers, offering exchange for energies spent.

Evening strikes, sun dimmed on the horizon, and the little black book lays flat against its likeness in skin.

'Thank you for what I've seen today. Thank you for listening. Thank you for your moment of precious time.'