How do you find it once it is lost? The water in your hands, never held, only experienced. There–where the ocean lingers for just a moment before folding back into itself. There even when you draw your hands back upwards, empty. How do you find it when it is everywhere?
The music drips like honey through the room casting an orange glow on the bedspread. The waves whisper a secret before losing their train of thought. Your heart beat is a harmony I sink into until I get up. Lying here I can see the space between the treetops. The coffee is on the counter. The sun is about to set. The distance between us stretches out towards infinity, made finite. The light is receding now. The waves are receding now. It was never mine in the first place.
We depict not what is there, but what is always there. The crumb left on the counter. The open window. We are made of distance not destination. A space to traverse, to sweep up onto the floor or to call out towards our neighbor. We see form which is really the negative, an object’s outer edge colliding with emptiness, but is it really empty? Or is it what we move through and inhale? This is what we try to capture in a photograph. The thoughts that dance between our words. The feeling. The reflection. The memory. We are more space than we are substance. This I think is important to remember.
And so I will sink beneath the waves that have begun an unruly staccato. Into the depths of an existence that seeks to expand out of its container. Between each note and its underlying harmony, I will find the space between my lungs to breathe deep the silence of the early morning. I will touch the moment; it is gone. In this way, the water is more of what it is not. My hands are full of everything all at once.