Above everything, outside everything. Where nothing but the wind and the air itself can trouble you. Where light grows, and fades, and the earth curves out of sight.
While there only physical reality is shut out of your mind, and the precariousness of life forgotten.
Let it go on. Let in run free into the void.
Once there was a moment of lightness, and possibly of grace, after which a respectful silence was the only appropriate response. And in that silence everything could be heard, everything could be seen and all could be understood. Afterwards no explanation was necessary, or expected. Besotted, but calm, we listened and we watched, alone with our understandings for all time.
Today is the day. Or perhaps tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after tomorrow. The day is the day, and will come when least expected. Perhaps I will know for sure a little time in advance of the day. I dare not hope that I will know, but know that when the day comes it will, for a moment at least, feel as though everything has led up to this day, and could lead to no other. I will know that my time has passed, just before its passing, and that the time to come will come no more. Today is another day, that has no other.
In those dreams long ago, I walked in your shadow. Not once did I see your face, but I knew that it was there, looking down on me. Perhaps I reached up and you held my hand. I see that moment, but cannot quite remember when, or where it was. You held my hand, and we walked together. The sun shone, and the little waves broke upon the sandy shore. One day, so long ago, so far away. One day that is gone forever. One day, long ago.
After a long drive, the motel is near. The SatNav reports the Time To Go very reliably, and the traffic is light to non-existent. The end of the journey; safe harbour; rest after strife. Yet I dread the night, and the demons lurking in nightmares who arrive after sleepless hours in a strange room.
Never again will I walk along the narrow and uneven pavement that runs alongside the railway; never again will I feel the cold wind on my skin or the heavy bag on my shoulder; never again will I hold the hard scent of a winter’s evening at the back of my mouth; never again will I hear the birds above me, and the planes still further above, on their endless journeys; never again will I see the road that runs down towards the place where once you ran to greet me, dressed as an unironic superhero, full of hilarity.
Now. Soon. Any second. The gorge rises and the chest tightens. Is it adrenalin that does this to me? Is it my body that does this to me?
In such moments it is so hard to think along the trammeled lines that bring such comfort and such calm. Instead we skitter from one side of the road to the other, unaware of whence we travel, or for why.
The fear is immense, and the dread of what is now surely on its way so unmanning. Let this day dawn. Let me be brave and not craven. Let my end be swift.
One stray, lean hound forgotten on a beach by his companion, probably many thousands of years ago. He wanders, mostly alone, pining for days gone long before he came into the world.
Is that right? Probably not, but it will do. Quietness is what I aspire to, an inner and outer absence, a vacancy, null, nix, rien. How the blaffing of a hound distresses, or the hum and shriek of a tram. I should like to press my head against the cold window pane for many minutes, even hours. Rain dribbling down the glass would be even better, although the house would necessarily have to be well insulated.
Then, perhaps, when I had finished enjoying this meaningful vision, I would be able to enjoy a baked dinner in amusing company, by which I mean others who find me witty and intelligent, rather than simply pompous and dull.
ohwyhwerehwtahw 