London poet & artist Robert Montgomery's work

London poet & artist Robert Montgomery’s work

I’m stuck on the double entendre, this question of questions. (Breezing through my sister’s copy of Lean In isn’t helping me forget it, either.)

One: What MUST HAPPEN, what is naturally inevitable, what must be, what wants to happen? What – in you, in me, in this universe, and outside it – is waiting for fire?

Two: In order for something to be born…. what must die? If one kernel of existence is set alight, what other fire must burn out to make way for it?

Everything I’ve experienced lately has been bringing me back to this question. Filling my car with gas. What had to die for that energy to be born? Realizing my goals for next week, for next year, for this lifetime. For the next ten minutes. What must die for them to be? Fear. Self-doubt. Intimidation by the unknown. Anxiety. Unwarranted apprehension. Callousness with others, with myself. Closing doors that can do nothing but let light and fresh air in. 

More than ever, I can see why a terribly easy way for anyone to die a premature death in mind, body and soul and be buried with their forgotten magic is by choosing to not even once entertain that question.

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