Eyes like mirrors that say I hear, I hear you speak of that which you deserve. Desires feel solid as stone; and as you imagine the utterly unimaginable you feel reality is a bed upon which we rest—I hear you; you wish the voice to say though it does not. No, No: the upswell of emotion profound like a tidal wave, like a great surge of being your being special and like no other; and you expect a world’s progress powered by your feelings and are disappointed always when it fails. You’re not saying this, though I hear it see it; see it in your glance aside, down: in eyes met and lost your mind becomes my mind and we are no longer strangers, no longer strange. What if there are sensations of the mind thus far unaccounted for? What if these might be discovered if only simple creatures as we embarked for the adventure? The time for waiting has ended; let’s be idle no more. I propose motion forward not backward: into the sunlight, into our unimaginable future.
—Days countless spent telling oneself with all the authority might be mustered that every motion forward means more than it means; life a series of shutters and visuals with each their own magnificence. Does it work like this? They ask, we ask—not aloud to ourselves; don’t listen or hear or: take the beauty away strip it down to what it once was, what it was born as. Today in a spurt I felt I might create a ship and in that ship a whole world; in a second the ship sank and the world with it—I chased and chased but it’s lost from me and all the ones I loved in that world I shall never love or know. Did you live in that world, in that second? And I pretend you hearing me through the fog through the white noise of existence and nonexistence. And the funny place I dream up the next days fly while they can: there are no perfect spheres in orbit only people as planets colliding, colliding and merging and destroying one another—slowly.
Your visage betrays the desires that feed your striving, striving mysterious to you—let it not rest in such shadow: you are the living as are we all. Inescapable dread, weight that would hold you in the depths for eternity will someday release you. I know: you don’t believe it. Not today, you say. Not this moment. What of the next? And you feel it, feel it in your core, with all your mind’s power that what you have now is established firmly and forever, never with change—yes, yes; you want something to look forward to and open the door to nothing. And this discourages you, makes you think the world is not a world but some other place. That you are in a bubble all to its own, that you are a universe all to your own separated in time for all time. There are no keys; no words to unlock secrets that never existed: these are feelings, this is what you are today. You need only know that I and others before me understand what you are saying, how you are feeling this moment. That is what we have. That is what we can do.
In a fuzzy fate you’ve reached the point, the point to claim your life as your life—though you’ve settled today just to plan the next move, resourceless and cold never happy with the now. Drawn out like a graphic novel; shaken and blurred like undried paint, undried ink—ink you beg to be forever moist, forever undecided so the wind may blow it in any direction. This is you: frame-by-frame worried and sad and excited in anticipation rising high and falling low trying to figure out how you’ll feel the next second so to embrace it. To be what is happening to you; to be here-not-there—the perilous there. Somewhere there’s a window filled with a smiling face fresh to greet you. Its discovery marks the end of repetition, repetition like a prison like a trap you can’t get out of but you will. You do. Be open not closed: something is coming, something is going to happen—for you; and I shall be there when it does.
—sharp inhale purposeless, gesture only internally significant in an isolated day. A corner: that corner, there; rounded each day ‘til the day the corner disappears. Changed by your mind or your mind changed by it—a thought chewed and raw grown seasoned in time. When a guess becomes a decision and a shake to a nod. When reverse is not an option, though you’ve circled the globe and backing-up is no longer needed—you may now take that second path. The other one, no better-or-worse just different, unknown—like the weather in the night, like the times you feel words to say but can’t say them. Don’t you know, you’re losing your days for decisions: so make them. Make the unfamiliar familiar, find missing comfort—or perhaps you never will, perhaps the absolute is not for you. Very well.
What are your waking, murky thoughts? What’s that you quite want to say? Explain the thing you feel you might never explain—go on, try. How are you isolated? What turns you to an island without a bridge? What are bridges made of? What turns you comfortable? Allows you to fall into place like a piece of something? What should I keep of you? If I am the world and you brush against me for a day or a year? Or are you the world? What are you carrying on your back? In your stomach? Why don’t you let it drop? Let it fall off? What are you doing? Why are you doing it? Do you think I know who you are? Do you believe I want to? Are you holding back? Are you being reserved? Do you know why? Don’t you have questions of your own? Questions you want to pick the answers to? Questions that at once terrify and excite you? Where your heart doesn’t know whether to explode or pack up and leave? Why does honesty seem like a projectile aimed for the skull? Why all the ducking and hiding? What’s there to lose? What’s not to be gained? Is it really only life? Does your tiny little decision to be momentarily made play any part? In the day? In the year?
—You are a ship, modest and firm upon the sea. Far ahead you glimpse a mountain range, the destination shrouded in fog and ambiguity. This is where you’re going. To the rear, where you’ve been. Oh, if only the journey were so linear. Each morning you rise fresh and new wondering if the peaks seem a bit closer than when they turned invisible in the fading violet sky. Hearts sink to toes, flop like fish: this adventure must be seen through. And it’s possible to circle round-and-round in a place with no beginning but always an end. Paths once trodden smooth over in an instant. Change moves slowly, though it does move—and you crawl behind it.
All the doors you open and close have made tiny changes in what you are. Be assured that somebody, somewhere, notices the difference—and it makes a difference. Strange to think how many minds you or I live in—minds not our own, but just as alive, just as emotive however much it’s secretly suspected only we understand how to perceive the world. Constant forward motion is forbidden; it’s in the rules to look back, always always like the past is the future and potential still exists. Where we have the same experiences without deja vu, this time lucid-not-yawning like the extraordinary’s the banal and our numbered days are endless. Do not give me a cave out of the cold, hibernation was never my way; nor for you nor for anyone else. The barren passage of time exists only so individuals may part and return unrecognized to one another—tiny changes turn to a gulf no bridge will ever connect. The project ends. Lives end and minds are smothered before the loss is undone, the memories recovered.
I am back. In a different form this time, from a world I tried to meet. Alterations surround me now: I gazed upon a peak that bustling world threatening to trample—leapt into the middle of it. Now I do not recognize it. Now it does not recognize me.
I am a mirror in which you see yourself, feel yourself; you are a mirror in which I see myself, feel myself. This is the reason, the reason our hair stands on-end. Perfect flow, beautiful scenes. The lives lost, the lives found—the lives we never thought we’d have until we have them.