What once seemed obvious now seems less sure.
Sitting upon the edges of knowledge, I see a kind of core to what is common. I also see that common core pulsating like our sun at its circumference; leaping up in odd places and in odd moments. When the common core falls, whatever pushed and pulsed is then recast. The core of common sense, a centralized location of what we all have in common, is as dense as before, still as common, yet…I can tell my self that what is different is me; older, my memory extended by each day’s forgettings and clippings, rearranged to fit today.
Do I see, each day, what is commonly common?
Does my view change each day, as the seasons?
Do I write to extend the is, of what is common?