I think I can take this to where it has been needing to go. Yes I see a path not yet carved out, but inherent in the grains. The way the winds cut just right in order to drift you here to me. We’ve got just enough to pull this off if we stay attentive. I know we missed a few things, but correct form will just about bring us to shore. All that will be needed is a bit of that human condition, that constant reach, the one that calls us forever short of the next step, but demands we figure it out.
Come on baby here we are. We have everything. We don’t want to be late. Not like last time. Although I wouldn’t really mind – Even if everyone was waiting on us. I’ve got to show my selfish side every now and again. For you I’d even go so far as to say, “fuck em.” They don’t need us, and we damn sure don’t need them.
She told me about all the places she had found tonight, and all I could think of was the glass of gin and cranberry, a terrible mix, that had been sitting on the table since the prior night. I pulled my quixotic mind to safety and lay upon the deck. She found quiet places, faces with no explanations – places you could sit and have a cigarette alone or with someone else who didn’t make it feel like someone else was there anymore than a fallen tree. In truth, the fallen tree probably gave off more of a presence. The fact was she could sit there and be alone. Was this one of those places? Had she found one right here in the living room across the table from me? I’ve heard we can find anything if it’s all we look for; If we only see clues marked on these comically tragic maps we all carry around then what hope is there that we’ll stumble upon anything golden? Still we always do it seems.
Are we arguing right now? Okay, we have approximately 9 more seconds to argue about this.
Okay, incredible. Time is up. Was there even time to begin with?
“The gods did not reveal, from the beginning, all things to us, but in the course of time through seeking we may learn and know things better. But as for certain truth, no man has known it, nor shall he know it, neither of the gods nor yet of all things of which I speak. For even if by chance he was to utter the final truth, he would himself not know it: For all is but a woven web of guesses.”
– Xenophanes of Colophon, 500BCE
You ever try to piece it all together clear as crystal? Look at you Sherlock, sure you still do. It’s inherent of existence that we viscerally will to describe the way the current of the river took us. In doing this though we describe exactly that! We tell of how it took us, in our own mind; How it tugged on our senses, and perhaps how we pushed back a little bit just to know how friction would feel against resistance – The river would be of no interest if it didn’t give us something to move against.
I’ll follow my cords, and you follow yours. Whenever they cross we can try to explain to one another the mysteries of what we saw. It will never be true North; No matter how scrutinizing we are, we’ll either leave something out or put too much in. And although we may have been born with it at the source, everything is the initial moment – Something we don’t come to make complete sense of for ourselves until we take a far look back – Even then, complete sense to ourselves is merely an illusion
You think you know why the river moves as it does?
“The outcome was philosophical dualism with all the tragic-comic woes attendant on spiritual dichotomy.”
– Robert Graves, The White Goddess
And you’ve realized an end of this winding road,
Or so you thought from way back at the start;
That I know that I know nothing deeper than you.
& to know the depths I must have found you out
Yes, here I always was too!
It’s a grand joke pulled from the repertoire
You play the trade, it’s a choice not to register me.
You willingly think, but deny that it has any weight
Look at you struggle, just as the smidiots;
Contort and twist your reason each season
But who am I to warn you of tragedy?
Now this is yours, and so it’s mine as we feed off the vine
How much time had passed? Heart beat driving like Ayrton Senna in the Monaco Grand Prix; He took a few deep breaths and pictured a calm sea. Then he opened his eyes and the waiting was over. The calm sea he had painted rapidly rolled into The Wave by Katsushika Hokusai. His stomach dropped like Pheidippides after his run from the battle of Marathon to Athens. He really shouldn’t be so shook up. He wanted her to make her choice, but he wanted her choice to be the same as his. “How could I be so selfish,” he thought. Quickly everything he had lined up in his head departed with his exhale.
Just as quickly as it all left him, it all came rushing back as he sucked in a large breath of cool air. He began sweeping in his head. Everyone is always looking for something. They might not admit it to themselves, but you can read it. Especially when you know what they’ve been through. It’s not even a forecast; It’s actual. They have hopes hanging from their lips the way a ripe fruit weighs down on its branch. Even Tantalus wouldn’t reach for his hopes though. The way that forsaken man looked up at him and shook his head should have been more than enough to go ahead and lower the casket on this. He never locked doors though. He was never afraid of what might come barging through uninvited.
The sun is high noon, beating down on his skin like a barrage of compliments from someone you haven’t seen in a while. He knew standing there too long would get him burnt, but he had reason to wait, more a feeling he couldn’t shake. He checked his phone for the time. One of the few nice days the year had seen so far, and on his mind was a place and time far from where he stood. He had spent a lot of his life waiting. He’d been wrestling with that concept now for a while. Why should any time in life be spent waiting? When the right time is near it will appear, he thought. We get so carried away, obsessing over what’s next. We could just relax and look at what’s now, then when what’s next is up, turn to it. For him the problem wasn’t waiting. It was wasting. He expected the best out of things. He saw no reason every moment couldn’t be everything it dreamed of being. Why every person couldn’t become more! He didn’t like to waste.
Yet here he was. Wasting. At least he was enjoying the sun. That was never a waste, however the fact could not be removed from his current situation; Again he was waiting. He noticed he had been checking his phone for the time incessantly. He was a dreamer. Maybe the king of wishful thinking. He could blame all those films. The ones about love and how things break down, but then through some sheer willful hearts and circumstance or luck, everything works out. Yeah they had watched a few of those. He was a romantic. He didn’t consider romanticizing a waste. It did waste a lot of his days though. He spent every other minute rearranging what he would say. He had to keep in mind that it wasn’t his choice. “I can’t make you love me,” he thought like Tank covered from Bonnie Raitt. I don’t want you to be “Somebody that I used to know,” like that silly Gotye song. He already knew the answer. He had felt it in the long days and lonelier nights. He knew she felt it too, but he wanted to give her space to find her happiness. It wasn’t his decision.