kulturbrille:amanuensis

Nothing read, nothing written, nothing done, in months and months, with so little time to reconstruct what has been lost. No longer young, no longer innocent, having tasted regret, betrayal, walking alone in the darkness, hearing only the fading beat of my heart and my faltering voice, and finally understanding what it is to love unconditionally and to know someone almost, as it is, a priori.

How simple it is, to speak freely and plainly, in words that do not convolute or turn upon themselves, narcissistic and distracting, to say what it is I mean, but only to know immediately that the words are wrong, wrong, that I mean, in some contextual, visceral way, so much more than I am capable of saying here and now. Happy, now, but more terrified than I have ever been, because in the past everything was easy, misleading, grounded in declarations and action, and now it is natural and real, found in the eternity between moments and in the transcendent, and thus imperfect, impermanent, ethereal. Every day, on the edge of disbelief, filled such longing and desire, joy and calm, but as if in a dream, in a moment, the entire universe could turn upon itself; day would turn to night, faces and people and objects would transform in an instant, and I would be in a different world, a different person, unable to feel the ground beneath my feet.

I have miles and miles to go before I sleep, or lay myself down to rest; in the garden of forking paths there is a place for me. I have found, without searching, serendipitously, secretly, and in my folly I have spent years studying, breathing, walking in such unfamiliar places, and now that I’ve found you there I cannot wait to run, fly, explore once more, with. Look, I am awake, once more, and have been so much more awake in the last few months than I have been for years. Because of. The unspoken, unknowable void that was always at the end of my every sentence, filled by.

R.