Whose is this street, these cars, those clouds, that light, that wall, these words, these eyes behind these words that you cannot know, if not all yours?
So many moments, so many shades, so many tastes…
Yet always the same taste,
The same length,
The same point.
Looking up through my bedroom window last night, 11.30 or so, up into the glowing Solstice to those painful stars, so many fathoms away, lonely, me, they, twinkling out into aquatic airiness, I sit on the edge of my bed to keep them company, feel their company, a while.
Far away though you are, my flickering friends, you need not strain to mean limitlessness for me, any longer. Yes, you’re far, but far still means here or there, doesn’t it. And the space that holds you, though so oceanic, no longer needs pose as infinity for me, for even space has its full extent. And life even, who holds things in all the directions there are, though so ancient, no longer needs to mean eternity for me, nor promise that she’ll carry me on, beyond myself.
I’ve found the scent now, little stars, that haunting scent of the unlimited. And not from afar, but from very near it comes, from inside this little secret place of ours, where the instant I am not me, I be you.
There is only the intensification of realness.
This intensification can take us wherever it wants but all it cares to do is show us more and more realness.
Perhaps it will be in boredom as much as ecstasy, in pain, or in quiet harmony. But the point is the realness.
And there is only one direction for us, on and on and on, into the realness we go, all the way, into its depths, further and further until we are quite out of sight of ourselves.
All the way into what we thought was death, and in death’s heart we touch the heart of realness.
And as I feel it happening, the sounds go, the voice no longer able to mutter a word, nor the mind a thought,
All that’s left is that fading light through the small bathroom window, its light tinged with the green of my lovely garden,
Realer and realer and realer it gets
Until only essence is left.
You are what you are looking at.
These gaps between the things I’m known for, the things I’ve said and stood for.
These gaps, these blanks,
Between times when mind has been made up,
When this means that, I mean that, I think that.
These gaps are where I’ll fall through,
Where I’ll die from.
And you’ll never have really known me.