One of My Favorite Words Is "Embody"

I used to be my body.

I inhabited it fully
is what I want to say
but that's not right--
it was not a vessel
that some essential "me"
occupied and filled;
there was no separation,
no distinction
between thoughts,
sensations,
and physical form.

No inner and outer.

My thoughts flowed most freely
when my body was in motion.
My deepest passions were felt--
not abstract emotions,
but physical experiences:
love as touch and sex;
joy as movement and play;
scent as memory and mood;
sound as thought in music--
poetic and emotional and
atmospheric and philosophical
and spiritual and playful--
not to mention connection:
communication with people,
communion with nature;
taste as pure indulgence.
The seat of my knowledge
was in my gut
my fingertips
the breath of my lungs.

I was in the world
and a part of the world.
I fit. I belonged.
One animal among many.

I was I
and
I was free.

Now, though--
time has happened,
age has happened,
not all at once,
I'm sure it must have been
gradual,
I didn't even know it was
happening,
only just realizing,
slowly coming to awareness,
suddenly able to articulate,
something has changed.

Now I feel captive.

I am something apart;
contained within
this thing I no longer know
except as an inconvenience,
a decrepit machine
that cuts me off from
life.

Even as my mind has grown,
my essence matured,
my confidence, capabilities,
comprehension increased,
my ability to partake
has dwindled.

Somewhere along the way
I lost my body.

Too much indulgence
and now I'm diabetic;
food has become sustenance
instead of pleasure.
Too much movement
and a knee surgery.
Obesity.
My kids say
Come, let us play
but I always say
Not today;
I'm too big,
too slow,
I hurt,
I'll get hurt,
not anymore,
you do it without me.
My son revels in
the pure joy of running;
something for which I yearn
that I'll never know again.
I've lost my sense of smell,
so no more mood or memory.
The doctor lists my conditions
on and on,
prescribes my medications
endlessly.

This thing that used to be me
has become an obstacle
rather than an expression.

Science says
my thoughts are physical processes,
chemistry and electricity,
that I am nothing without my
sensations and perceptions,
yet in the background, when
I wasn't paying attention,
my self-concept morphed
regardless,
and now I imagine myself
as a collection of formless
ideas floating in a void
trapped inside this
rusty vehicle,
forever reaching for--
and falling short of--
true connection.

I have become abstract.

I don't fancy myself a writer. Writers rewrite. They edit and revise. They know poetic forms. I'm just someone who loves to express himself with words. I might tinker with a first draft to make it a bit more effective, but I don't practice the art of writing. The words above are random, just something I woke up today wanting to voice. I don't know where they came from. I doubt I'll ever come back to them to make them something worthy of the name poetry, something quality enough to speak truth. I just know April is poetry month and I've been prodding myself to come up with an idea I might form, some content or theme I could play with, and today these words emerged. So. There it is.