I am currently in a state of transition. More specifically the one that was inevitable from the moment I was born. And even without the almost decades of foreshadowing, I could sense it coming, like I could when I noticed I had dimples on my back, when I saw the lines at the edges of my eyes. Transition. Traces of it, always, evident in life. Sometimes noticeable in the present, sometimes only in hindsightful explorations of memories. But clear, a constant. The only one, really. Change is the only thing that stays the same.

Transition; have you ever noticed that that’s what a moment is anyway? The transition between past and future: present. Both stretch in either direction infinitely, and the present is the most fleeting thing I know of. Each moment is welded to the next by time, and we live in the in-between. This is where we find our reality.

My reality is ending, I’m realizing, or at least the only reality I’ve ever known. I’m off to search for joy, in its laboratory-pure sense, in its separated from everything else sense. Essence of Joy, like a bath salt, to soak in. Elements of preparation for Future also included, says the label on the box, of the bath salt, of my mind.

Did I mention that it’s ending?

Look, if this is what joy is supposed to be, I’m not sure I’m doing it right. All those transitions were for this one, and I’m not sure they were worth it. I spent too much time looking out for the next Now. Did I? Or did I not spend enough?

It’s easy to explore all the things that have already happened, but our mistake is thinking they’ll have some implication on what happens next. But I read this book, this existential detective story, and some philosopher was quoted as saying that the Self changes every hour. So if every hour I’m a different me, I don’t know how I can expect anyone else to remain constant. Whoever said “People don’t change” was lying to themselves. That’s all we do.

I’m changing, the way I love is changing, I’m transitioning, everything is a transition. Off. I go. To seek a big world.

I’m conscious of this being the only moment in which the sky is the limit.

I’m conscious of a severe need to go to bed, a severe wish to have a lucid dream, in which I will will myself to be able to fly, because really, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. My single wish.

The sky’s the limit, in this moment, in two ways.

In infinite ways, stretching either direction.

If I had been the one formed in the image after

Six days or so

In the nude, with some boy

oceans that are good

et cetera

I would've gone straight to the for

bidden

Fruit

Knowledge is power

Innocence is a lie

And I'm caught somewhere in between

as the sky crumples and the

heavens fall.

When I was young and found the satin sports bra the color of four o'clock sky in my mother's drawer, I was mystified. How could such a splash of blue and vitality possibly belong to my mother, who wears nothing but white t-shirts and mom jeans, who's wardrobe is as drab as the color of the walls of her office? But there it was. Shimmering like lake water, out of place both in color and in style. Waiting. It was too small to be worn by her again, and too brilliant ever to be thrown away.

I left it there then without telling my mother that I'd had a glimpse into her past. In the ten years since, it's ambled its way into my life and back out again. When I needed a pair of socks or a scarf. When I wanted to get Mom a new shirt and needed her size. Every time I open that drawer I am accosted by the sight of the thing, because I always seem to forget it's there. It goes so against everything I've known about my mother. But since the day I found it, I've loved it from afar, just like I do with Leo DiCaprio.

I bring this all up because my mother offered it to me a month ago along with some old jewelry and a tiny vial of Chanel °5, as we were cleaning out some dusty memories from a shelve. I took it like it was a holy relic. It was the only piece of clothing my mother had ever bequeathed to me.

I'm wearing it now. The thing fit me, and luckily I've got a small window of time before its rein on my body ends as well. It looks like it was temporally relocated right out of an 80's aerobics class, which is incidentally where my mother wore it. As a tribute to her, I'm wearing it to yoga. I haven't gotten any weird looks. Not that I should be getting weird looks: two of these guys wear very tight female yoga pants and one definitely has a skirt. And we all go: ommmmmmmmmm.

And I'm wearing it around the house nowadays and my family has just accepted it, and eventually I'm going to bring it with me to college and it'll find it's way into it's own dusty drawer. The thing is beautiful in a timeless sort of way. It doesn't provide a hell of a lot of support for my breasts, but it provides support for my soul or something, which is where it counts.

And so I feel like my downward dogs and warrior's poses are especially jazzy. My breasts move to the rhythm of each step. And the color of my mother's satin sports bra is coloring my world.

We're too much a part of each other's lives to cut it all off like my bangs, 

which are getting too long.

This is only temporary.

If I'm in love with memories and you're scared of the present, maybe the sanctuary we have is in the future, where things are alright.

Not nearly good, just a feather from uncomfortable, mostly silent, pretty okay, just alright.

I'm thinking since we're on the cusp of neverseeingyoueveragain it'll be fine, smooth lines of text on white paper, clean, tucked away somewhere, good for reading once in a while and not dwelling on, and I'm planning on falling in love later, thanks.

I think it'll be all the soft memories that make it worth it. Not these hard ones here. I think I'll remember it through the poetry, when it's over.

The poetry, and the lingering thoughts, and the hope.