All is there to know

Alive in a world growing through and through out in the open moment, I watch horizons bleed into the ever unfolding cracks of my skin. I wade through you, world. A sweet evergreen morning and faintly resting sky. I realize – dragging upon the scratched surface of valleys forgotten once now and before – that I follow the ends of the world as the moon follows me – in sacrifice ever-loving. Not understood, behind heels and behind eyes always right there. I swear I see between your beats a heart so lucid so flawless so to be nothing at all but sight itself. The truth is: I love you,

I ask myself the why of it all. I do not doubt. I see the hand in front of my face. It dissolves not my need for questions and, after all, here I am. And there it is. It’s right in front of your face – deeper there is only more surface. Is that worse? You already knew how you felt and yet here you are wondering if it matters now that you know and I suppose it was never in words anyway. It was between things. It was between yourself and all that outside. All the not-you was already there, before the question, and the more you give names the more I know how you feel – it’s already gone. Right before the thought, before the name you were looking for how long across the green, green world with all its smiles and eyes – it’s gone. And beneath all that? Just more. Just and only more.

Torrents flow around us, you and I, but I never felt the drag of skin against it. Cascading off mountains cold and white and far afield, water brings life to our town where breath is everywhere ever growing through us. This is our home. I have never known more than home – although I travel quite frequently farther even than mountains – and it has never been more than the world ourself or often something quite like it, and, for all its differences, it was always already here. Space folds in itself and so wherever I ever go I am ever there already home and I know now that now is never here though always new through every where.

Here is still home. With its cold rivers running between my fingers; I can smell it. Lazy chimneys pump our commericum blood into evergreen skies and I can smell its mercuric heresy. The edge of black smoke melts into soft fractal nothing. Where does it end and something begin? I suppose it’s obvious as long as you don’t think about and just (as long as you just) beckon the becoming growth. Do you know it too – that I am going? Can you smell it on the air, on the edge of smoke? 

How dare the world be both erect and enormous. How dare it try to justify itself with our lives. How dare I have to just be.

Nothing. No this is nothing – not goodbye. I look beneath your eyes and I see the torrents, the mountains, the cold. Goodbye. I love you. Standing there, your hair waves softly a silent sea. Standing there, your lips, rose gold wet as the day, say nothing. You can feel the drag of it all, this life I know but then why do you insist so on standing in it, this life? Yes, you say it, all, terse joints screaming goodbye.

But this is not goodbye. You know as well as I. There is nowhere to go and so there is nothing to say, and though We are always with us between the beats of pure recollection, yet you don’t. All eyes and joints and soundlessness – you flesh yourself out before me. I dare to say it’s not goodbye and all. It’s just like before. It’s not goodbye. It’s just like standing here. And there. I go.

My paths before me. Step before step.

There was a man in the mountains. The rocks rested uncertain against the stars. Each was deaf to the day and held dearly to its own wonder. For moons I walked through them; I saw the end before my eyes. The journey seemed so small from the village and seemed small still.

I found him waiting here just for me but there he had always been, hands folded just so between the autumn days. He expected no one but welcomed change, granting me leave from the bustling apathy now far gone. So far away and small were their little bird hearts flying beneath our feet. Always going somewhere these fast hearts, he said, as he watched heavy in egress and knowing moments.

I could see it now how they were too, like me, heads held high knowing exactly nothing and certain of it. Where did we think I was going?  Having no concern for the future is a fool’s virtue and here I was too virtuous, seeking my emptiness in removed corners outside the trappings of what isn’t.

The man yielded glass soft to the eyes of a world that didn’t care enough to pry. He floated the statement of his body, asserting himself here in rocks and stars. He had come to nothing and after finding it continued.

The road was long, not even a road. I continued toward the day that came. The steps resounded in me, each a fresh enunciation of sky and stratum, of frost and solitude. I had both already in their turn and in their turn respected them.

And so it was that I stayed with the man and his fire. The day next I left.

I will be here. I will arrive, after all this time, having since known too much what roads can teach. The rocks will know you, too, as will grass and eyes. I will kneel down by the ragged, tired rivers and drink deep its melody. It will have tasted sweet as rose with your gold irises reflecting the sun beneath what you too will know too well. I will walk day by day, past mountains and stars, and I will drink deeply from the water. There the smoke will rise as the morning cracks against our fractal skin. The torrents will carry our songs. The cold will open and offer itself to we who have left. I will travel long nights to new days and I will have gone far away to always here where I will be.

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