The voice has a proposal I would like to propose, he says, tenaciously That there is, No past, no future, Only the present moment.
It’s difficult to argue with The Voice, Because you’re the one who got Him talking in the first place When you realised that the anchor Near your lungs, sinking, expanding, Gathering tremendous weight and speed, Wasn’t your body malfunctioning, But your head.
The voice has a proposal, again The past and the future, he says, quietly, Are mere projections of Your present moment experience.
It’s difficult to argue with the voice, Because he’s Irish. And the really pleasant, soothing kind of Irish, That typically only exists in movies.
Also, because he is right, And you know it. The problem is, you refute, (Silently of course) That she was my past, Is my present, And would be my future, But that now she is not around, Now that she has left me to my own devices I cannot breathe.
The voice is silent, Either because he is thinking, Or perhaps in between proposals. You join him in Irish-Catholic silence, Try to think of her as now, Not forever, And wait for your mind to draw up the anchor.
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