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All rulers hunger to fill an emptiness even the best intentioned among us fail, hearing nothing but an emptying a collapsing shell always with desires to be never filled
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Lungs teach the first lesson: to be alive is an endless labor of breathing independently. Next, wide round eyes overwhelmed with the detection of light, begin discovering order within patterns while the body is soothed only by being held close – the clung-to warmth of another, surrounding. Soon, by discovering our place, a legacy of incorporeal thought pulls us out of our heads, revolving above the multitude of bodies animated by remote control. Except today my right leg taught me speaking above and below the knee, even further up where the hip shifts as I breathed down along the length, allowing a reformation to align, where it kindly revealed in its bodily way that each person collects their knots to be released on the way to freedom, and just as that end is never the same, each twist is unique in undoing. And this is where I rested, spread open to the body's voice that only realizes – beyond the purview of psychology's suffering roots, to that centered, quiet and blissful hue.
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There is a price, you being different when money is meaningless and all that matters is another creature seeing what they see, knowing which fantasies inhabit each one – what experience has laid down sending each to their far corners to dwell in a haven of unique and delicate madness, where the unsaid matters most urgently, and all words that are easily said, are never required, since such common things, need naught. How unlikely finding the misunderstood further out, as if all the impossible faces flying apart as random seeds, discover past all chaos, oxbow lakes formed through an alien grace not yet descended on those who, already knowing their way, through an act of hearing all that is not given, yet left to be opened, only by you. This is how I remember, not by nameable facets of stone, but through the air we breathe, displaced by growing things in their marvelous slopes beyond shape, where the mind fails to hold any substance to be called its own, blown through endless rounds of small bullets, flashes of current, the wind that knocks down anything trying to stand on false feet – and arms, understanding their strength, that hold without tiring in the aftermath. To observe the plotting of a maze as creatures rummage to find the switch never hearing above the din of walls, this is the difference; the price is exile along the broken stretch of travelers unaccustomed to their own perception within a fabric of dream, held together simply by a chance they might be seen, and more, looked to, to be revealed.
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Oh yes things live hidden in cracks on the persimmon wall not orange or juicy plumb strangely tasty in frost little landscapes running with bent thin legs looking like lightning blackly striking connected in places that leap out in the kitchen air shocked being seen dimensioned, wriggling hair standing on end, funny in the manner that makes completed curves screech wishing as balloons that leap and leap up to the hot bulb popping loud with a start when eyes blink and blink
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Just as the unseen trees stand sentinel, dark towers of living shadow aware beneath dim light strewn to navigate the night, a soldier justifies his height, gun gripped by the surrender already made to throw away all that turns higher, hidden in the dark, undergrowth.
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The room, lit dimly with a single string of failing Christmas lights, monochrome white, hums with the dull noise of fans, quietly rustling papers stapled in a small stack chronicling an old lover's new journeys. Behind, spread across the floor, thin manuals overflow their shelves, filled with techniques both obsolete and new that pay the bills, always rustling quietly, plaintively, stacked in disarray, on the left. The long hall lined with the old lover's old paintings leads to the larger room filled with angling books marking out the stacked chronicles of a singular head, a collage of juxtapositions never meant to survive together under one roof. Sandstone, mortared together, irregular, in shapes surpassing count, stand solidly on the foundation, a polygonal focus hollowed out for the fire that radiates, once warmed strongly, long after it fails. In the Not-Spring night, dark towers of trees lit by what light might trickle from the sky, gripping the steep slope down to the stream, spread out their branching as if to dwarf, purposefully, even the most well-intentioned house – sat in its own peculiar geometries. No sound but the hum of fans is heard manufacturing their flow. Tonight the trees must stand on their own, to not be seen, towering as they will. The rippling stream, polishing its smooth stones, will go unlistened. And all the paintings hung in their positions in the long hall, tonight, will remain life-like still.
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I don't like the ocean why do you think that I crawled out of it in the first place, it is too cold and too deep for my little feet and I get wet, wet, soggy and wet. Briny, well that's not so bad but it's not like I can drink it when I'm thirsty now is it? And you would think they would quit putting me back in it when I have all these modern fabrics with colors to choose from, I mean, they're the best money can buy even my personal surf board to ride the waves keep knocking me over and I am getting sick to death of trying to claw my way back to the shore that, by God, I know is there somewhere - I mean the waves keep rolling that way, damnit, damn ocean it's so not important any more when you see all those bonfires built with happy people dancing on the beach in circles without having to even look at each other through the damned water getting in their eyes. They're just happy, happy like I used to be before they put me on the tide or the tide came or I don't know stupid ocean it sucks.
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Is it possible tigers imagine flying above the plane where the hunt seen from higher appears small even while instinct tethers to that old any way you can belly-full of flesh? There are places in the garden to hear voices in branching trees still in tall grass praying with paws where home is found only by degrees through a singing species soothing the beast daring to take flight in that great rise forward from each.
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Each center is inescapable – a vast garden in exile spilling out the kept flora like a reminder of perfection never to be truly touched. The brief, sweet taste of juices glisten on lips, then evaporate as they are known: the fruits of each from their own species, distinct, and further still, within even the same species, unique. Only curious travelers driven to move through the wider comfort of in-between, understand the language common to all: light reflecting clear from growing fields, the afternoon air inhaled as a shared breath, clouds of bees moving within purpose, or strangers sitting without speech simply to reminisce silently all that may yet be. You see, as you allow yourself see me from the outside, the center where love holds me in place, within my own exile, immobile within the in-between that longs to wander in its own intricacies back to the garden where leaves reach forever up toward the skies that fill us and down beneath the brown earth to draw life – where I am only imagined in pieces, orbiting the flower of your purpose as it has been left, to be taken up, and worn as an emblem celebrating the moving beauty of circles. Thus the traveler never brings his bed yet rests exquisitely in the wasteland all travelers make their own – gardens laid together through reflections on the field, the morning air between night and day or evenings lulled with the smell of growing, spread by the buzz of a million bees flying as one sentient cloud, formed by our midst.
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The air was fresh with potential a reminder of starts by first light looking for buried seeds to be warmed into springing up from beneath the fallen, pointed leaves scattered without knowing their final stop, to rest severed in the nonsense of decay that sacrifices any order to form laying the ground for new seasons: beans wrapped greenly around posts, red fruits lifted juicy by vines and the rounded roots engorged in earth with their sweetness to be eaten up.