there are spaces in-between tangible things,
something that must be traversed
to get from one moment to the next.
not all fragments of time are remembered —
these pieces of our history are spent
with little things and little actions
like waiting, waiting in line,
waiting for the bus, signing cheques,
calling for pizza, walking away
from a break-up, walking towards
a promotion, shopping for groceries —
moments that are glossed over,
used as set ups in conversation,
i call this the threshold.
five years ago, i died.
my mortality was made painfully evident
by a piece of paper and some kind words.
and now i wait for the eventuality.
i habituate the threshold
and have turned every moment
into a glorious landscape
of peaks and valleys.
there are no more trivialities.
the waiting and the walking
are significant moments
all because i still can.
this space between instances
flood the ether and my waking.
Nothing is wasted.
Every fragment of time is heavy and dense,
you could throw it as far as you can see
and when it lands,
a surge of meaning
will tear the subjectivity of time apart at the seams.
Every second is charged and full,
no matter how you spend it.