Beyond the watch of stargazers
I was a flower that sat in still waters, deep, and I drifted in place with the breeze sweeping slow up above me. It did not move me. I sat, unmoved, open and free to the source of the world. I stared at the sun, drinking up all her glory, growing and drinking and drifting in places, basking in her bountiful beauties… she is the sun and I live for her. I live with my eyes on the sun and she blinds me, gives me life again, threatens to lift and to lighten me. All of the sun in the world, and no place to hide it, nowhere to save it for later. So much sun that it burns you. Burned up and blinded, alive sitting still in these crystal clear waters. I read about nausea and Kierkegaard’s angst, and I aligned with them, and tried to fall ill to my own inner sicknesses. I thought I was nauseous but I couldn’t get sick. I stuck my thumb down my throat and didn’t throw up. I was also like Peckinpah, shooting up mirrors and raising the stakes. I was a criminal in a den with a comedian’s blood on my hands. When I was angry or depressed I said, this is the end of me. This is me, this is my angst, and it is endless. But it was not me, at least not so easily. It wasn’t the world that it spun slow beneath me. It was something red in the distance, and I could not see it – sunblinded. Life, then. And that was the long and the short of it. It was all up to me, so I sat with it. Sat still on a hill under my grandfather’s apple tree. Suddenly I dreamed up Atlas, felt he mattered. Suddenly Alexander was Great, and likewise immortal. Immortality, assumed and maintained. Life was thus masterful – as such I would master it. Before I was sitting here, I was fighting and screaming, I was punching the bricks with my fists. Punching the bricks with my fists! Bare, bleeding fists, and the bricks in the wall all covered in blood… I laughed at myself, and I laughed at the scene I was making, and then I sat down, sitting still by the walls while the world, and her walls, fell down to the ground all around me. That is the way the world will end – not with you, or against you, but over time all around you, in beautiful conclusion, stunning collapse. Beautiful threads given space for to string and to span once again in some newness, to tend and to stitch and to heather, patches and gentle, though vibrant, vibrations, free as the birds flown from rooftops, as though it were never there – we, though never here.