I am forgetting what I learned, with the people. It is to sit with them and dream, not of other things, but together. I am forgetting what I learned, at the fire side. There is no condition of life. My longing is my truest friend. It never leaves even when the ocean is thick with grief, even when the sea overspills with joy. I am forgetting.
I am remembering a time. I remember because it is something I have known. It is something in me. It is not of another time. It is not someone or something else. Some one in this some thing has spoken to me and said:
I am quiet in the night. My thoughts run around like children passing round a dare. Like a peace shattered by its symphony. I am called, in loud and quiet voices unsympathetic, aloof. Too much spoken, not speaking up enough.
In this dark I can see a thousand angels singing. They call my name and I respond with every cell of my being. They cannot do other.
I am called upon to do what my instinct tells but it lays heavy on my heart to sell myself again. To make use of myself. I am called unreasonable. Unrealistic. I do not like the way the world is. I have heard it can be different.
I have heard.
I have heard.
I have heard music that calls into every winking I of me. I have heard the sound of every breath pause between all moments. This is not imagination. I was there and it enfolded me. Have you been enfolded? Of course you have. The word itself rings like sparks in the inner ear.
The word rings like home or matrimony or create.
It sparks our own self-knowledge.
In caves we have known. In mountains also. Sitting on a sofa lonely I am knowing also. I am knowing because I must. There is no other way, now.
There is no call for the soul than for it to be born. No remark that goes unheard.
Love, you are created.
Enough now, go about your business.
Inshallah. God willing. I am a newborn in a sea breeze, empty.
I am created in flesh. I am a homemade winter coat.
I am folds and shrouded in you.
I am quiet and soothing you.
I am spent and ignoring you.
I am jealous and mindful of you.
I am known and throughout you.
I have lost the powerlessness of words. I create too much meaning in them. My heart is dry from over-speaking. There is a core, though it is yet to be reached. None has spoken of it yet. To hear it would be to leave you.
And here I sit, lamenting. A coward’s game and none may call it out because we’re too fit to speak than learn. I don’t mean
listen in the lament way, the patronise of nods and hmms and nose tilt to the side of me. I can’t feel you in that. It’s not my right, but it would be…nice. To feel each other. Not touching but just to know. We’ve developed a sophisticate for feeling but not reaching. For knowing how to block each other out.
The entrepreneurs don’t understand their lives are not so important. On the edge they wriggle, and the words hardly change.
They speak the same old game.
I am hurt.
I am not made new in this. I am made old. And withering, a new frontier opens up.
This is not me now, what you say. This is not me and I cannot accuse your impression. It is mistaken as my own. I have not spoken it because you seemed so free before I could. You seemed so…delicate. I could, and did, abuse that privilege. I spoke when I could have remained quiet. I was afraid I might unnerve you without confirmation. Confirmation of my own lack of resilience to let the moment hang.
Please, let me disappear. Please, hurt me and let you see me hurt. And let me see you too. I have not. I have been too busy thinking of myself.
And of how, you and I are not as close as we can be. It is not my right. But it would be…nice. To learn you. To sit and unmovingly walk around the parade ground smiling.
It was vacant that day and we were like soldiers prrmping out a tune.
I am silent but the words keep pouring. Have you heard me, lately?
I was out on the radio, starting to change somehwere out in middle America. And Noord-Holland and the Noord Zee and quiet then I passed the stealing image of you.
The ink without a smile. You’d dropped something. Unprotected, I could see you full force; it was radiant and dazzled. And quiet. The quietness of you unaware. I noticed and withered away.
I cannot measure the preciousness of that. On the sea and you stood behind me saying: “Where is loneliness? Where is despair?”
I could not find it, find it anywhere. The sky was a blood red canopy and I went to sleep, as all nights, in a boat rocked by a lullaby of a whisper calling to you. Thank you. You are. My sweet relief. Thank you.