It is one of those rare moments, when all have left and stayed away so long that solitude solidifies. I desired it so during these work-worn months. Now that I can finally approach it, I find my soul in a more dreadful state than the last time I paid a visit to it.
It gurgles, it boils. Dark tentacles swirl beneath the heaving surface. Solitude is so full of, oh… unpromises.
There is no grandeur, no scales to measure the dark space inside. No broom and no carpet to swipe the unwanted desires beneath. Barren hands, pale and fragile.
But ride one can and ride one does. Every fear, every pain, every malice and shame desire to be lived throughout. With no return. With no witnesses to the reckless ecstasy of brimming restlessness. This desperate explosion of no end or effect. This uselessness, these life twitches and turns, this gamelessness, this praylessness, this victory-free courage… to be… on one’s own.
October 11, 2007
In the circle of our madness bound by a chain, we mock the others’ chains of madness. In the shackles of our desires, we long for others’ desires. In sixes and twelves bound, as an ill-boding tarot-sowing with senseless murmur lowly rising.
It is a lie that the roads bifurcate endlessly. There is only one road – the one that happens. A mild heresy against will and freedom. Not against imagination though.
What will happen is the road that can concentrate in itself the strongest, most narrowly will run through the stalagmites of pathlessness. The most secret one will burst forth as the front face of the Worm called future.
All our entwined unsatisfied desires and terrors carry together that face wrapped inside in an embryo. The Worm has nearly childlike features, with a mouth cramped from unutterable pain, or joy.
It’s difficult to begin… not where to begin, but who will begin. The one then, or the one now?
I’ll begin as if there is a Now, as if there haven’t been so many Now-s in-between. Life comes in crushing through the gates of each shattered Me that is trying to hold off the flood and persist into maintaining some, any kind of perspective, long enough to write down a single word: I.
Where did it all begin? Dreams say that it all began in a knot. It began unfolding. It’s still not done its work of the day yet. A work of undoing mirrored into a work of weaving of a great tapestry of a world. A World.
I shall never begin like this. But I cannot move forward when all that moves is in that massive embroidery shifting like a sea. A sea.
I’ve had the sea many times on my mind. Not thought about it, not imagined it. I have been lying as one with it, carefully letting it weave the outskirts of my mind. Fingers and foam. A line of defense belonging to an earthquake, defense against stillness. It moved me.
The sea has plenty to do with what I’ve become. I’ve meant the sea. It meant me. The one hidden in the Now, the sea underlying the tapestry.
There. I’ve said it. There is no Me to tell a story. There are quilting knots in the tapestry. But I am not. I’ve lied myself down between the sea and the tapestry and there we float. That was the end of me.
But you want a story. You want me to stand still long enough to be able to draw a line connecting any number of quilting knots. At least one for now and for good. Believe me. I’d like to do that myself.
The sea does not have connecting lines but mere playful reflections of upward light. They move. Any point in the sea can be connected to any other at any time. Then the surface changes and a different weaving shows its brow. The previous points darken and sink. A different story of the same sea. But we long for the sea. We belong to the sea. Don’t you?
I’ll freeze for a moment and begin, anywhere, anyhow. Just begin. I won’t lie, but I won’t tell the truth either. A glance thrown over shifting water. Glittering. Life.
I’ll take a deep breath, hold it and start at the nearest peak of awakening. What do I see? Not a sea…. A desert. The Desert…