Sweet Little Nothings

My movements cannot honour this land. I must make myself still. Small. I must make myself smaller still. To not to seek to fill this space but to be filled by it. I know there is no destiny to fulfil. It was a lie. But to try to find graciousness and gratitude in my own graceless movements. I must make myself still.

It all looks very different from the sky. Water fills every shallow impression. In every scratch, in every scrape you can trace the path retreating glaciers made. The slow scrape of time upon time. Forces on a sublime scale that are impossible to define. What does 23,000 years feel like? A lifespan fleeting by like the first bike ride of summer. One day, we'll be gone from here forever. 20,000 years later and it may still be winter.

I am a speck of dust, a spot of blood to be rubbed out, a sweet little nothing, a whisper, gone without so much as a whimper. It's like I wasn't even here.

I don't want to die on some god forsaken hill. I don't want to die if I can't see the sky.

Promise me. Promise me. When the time comes, you'll burn my body and put my ashes in a slow-moving river in Saskatchewan. Put them in your mouth, rub them in your eyes, in your nostrils, under your arms and other places that are warm and convulse with ecstatic sorrow and sleep until tomorrow comes.