The Groove

I’d lost my groove.
Or rather, not lost it, but gave it up.
I had it, the groove, in my grasp, before I exchanged it for an ill-conceived rut.
It wasn’t something I could catch in a jar on a cold night, when its light gives away its position,
it’s an identity, a palpable entity, contingent on thought that shows no derision.
The groove.
A state of being beyond the fog that makes every place home.
You glide and slide and ultimately reside, as none other than citizen Om.

I’d lived in this groove, finessing, carressing this thing that made the mundane manageable.
The key that turned every situation into an unlocked door toward something beyond what is simply just salvageable.
Where does life want me, no, need me to be?
What are the questions that need to be answered by no one other than me?

But instead of existing in the ebb and flow of that liquid groove,
of riding the undulations of yesterday into tomorrow, I decided that I would not move.
I would be the immoveable stone stuck, in the mud of my own way,
the paradox of unstoppable force, that coerces you to stay.

We are the rut; I am, you are.
The illogical, cosmological, obstacle of thinking instead of doing.
The waiting for something outside of ourselves to be worthy enough of pursuing.
There is too much to do, to feel, to seek, and learn,
to take up permanent residence in comfort and for “nothing to do” to yearn.

Be a malleable animal,
champion of the affable,
warrior of the radical.
Ride the high tide, where you are not only the guided but also the guide.
Fall faithfully into the vibration, the stream of consciousness and the unknown,
speak of truth, humanity, and empathy, then in the groove find home.