Something happened. It was the inevitable grinding of the tectonic plates. The unfolding of a naked leaf into a perfect lotus pose. A bird song that cracked the silence. A kiss that vanished. A heart beat that stopped. There were words that never made it to the page and sighs unexpressed. There was the deepest indigo of my soul where the darkness of night was broken only by the silver crescent of the moon. Then sky so blue that I cried tears of joy. I held myself in the certainty that this moment would never last. Then I exhaled freedom.
It’s made of stone, solid.
Something the heart desires, at least for some time.
Of course, nothing is certain, it never is.
When is enough?
What is everything?
Who am I?
Do you remember that there are no answers?
We ask questions and open the void.
I am a wild creature, she breathed through every pore. Do you know how to fly, Inquired the endless sky? Of course I do, she replied, not making a move. Then where are your wings, demanded the coarse wood beneath her arse. I don’t need them today, was all that she said. So you’re stuck, laughed the branches prodding her gently. The wind was listless. No rain tried to fall. But the shadows had an interesting perspective. They took the form of whatever they lay on and when the sun turned, left no trace at all.
She’s lost her way, moaned the mattress wearily.
Where are her arms? asked the solid floor.
The window was closed to all possibilities.
But the floor sprung sweetly under the weight of her frame.
The light smiled softly, the air rushed madly,
And she laughed at the room,
In complete abandonment.
The village is a walk through ferns, following a goat track. I heard the goat herder’s wild animal cries at sunrise and the passing sounds of bells, bleats and hoofs sure-footed on stone. But I have no desire to go to the village. Instead I go to the waterfall to wash the city from my body and remember the sweet caress of the sun.
Clouds, so impermanent, advise her that reality is a mere dream. The illusion of solidity in their shape and comforting forms is exactly that, illusion, disappearing as temperature changes, wind blows or night extinguishes day. Why would a cloud be other than this? I marvel at such simplicity. I will endeavour to leave clouds to their journey, not fall in love with them in any other way than to share their pleasure of being vaporous perfection.