What You Carry
Aeternum Fluvium in Motu: Reflection 37
Not just your weight, your words, your desires, your pain, but the cargo that clings to the marrow, the silence that burdens the breath, the secret reservoirs of feeling that leak, drop by drop, into the world around you.
What you carry cannot be hidden; it will spill unbidden through the cracks in your voice, through the pauses between sentences, through the trembling of your hands, the voices in your dreams. Anger or love, sadness or glee, awe or rage, each escapes like smoke through the seams of a container, candid in its incandescence, refusing disguise.
Your words have weight, not just in the sound, but in the tremor they leave behind. Your love has shape, not just in touch but in the lingering warmth of its afterglow. The care you give scatters itself like pollen, unseen yet fertile, settling into the soil of other souls.
And over time, all of it sheds from you, like autumn leaves carried by rising wind, like rivers pouring themselves into the sea, like shadows lengthening into evening.
So I chose to travel lightly. To lay down the stones I once mistook for treasure. To loose the slip knots of sorrow that once kept me raveled. To let go of excess, so that when I walk the long road westward, towards the beautiful sunset not yet mine to see, I arrive unburdened, my arms empty enough to hold wonder, my heart light enough to rise.