Moving as writing. Moving as life.

Little by little, progress is made. Some of it is negative progress, to be sure; an absence rather than an addition.

We gather from one place in ourselves to bring to another. We pack ideas into boxes. We remove thoughts from walls. We try to figure out where everything will fit. We create the disorder from which order will emerge.

It’s unsettling, sometimes. Often, it’s just plain upsetting. Nothing is decided. Nothing can be. We do not own ourselves. We do not command certainty. We make our decisions in small moves, one to the next, the Rubik’s Cube on the way to a resolution. One move leads to another; that move to another. We make a mess of things. We hope everything will come out right eventually.

We move ourselves, our hearts, our thoughts. We are wakened by concerns in the impossible hours of night, and not gently. Reality is too much with us. Until we can reside comfortably again, in words, in home, in our heads.

The blank wall is a place between places. Things removed from it, it is empty of us. Waiting, it is a place of possibility. It’s the in-between that sucks.