It was said that all is mind, however not his. He was but a figment of the world’s imagination.
One day she revealed that the opacity of things was but the glean.
he sought to be relieved of hope. but in the end was forced to give up even that desire.
As winter lingered he found that all that remained him were the certainties arising from the habit of not knowing.
her secret lay in letting others seek her.
even their obscurity she tended with light.
They were her dream, and she theirs.
He had once seen something quite beautiful, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Nevertheless he was consoled by the fact that though whatever it might have been was now irretrievably lost at least its beauty lingered.
looking down he realized that the earth’s memory was but the earth. looking up he realized that the sky, in fact, had no memory. looking at himself, on the other hand, he simply forgot.
the sole heroic act that he imagined himself capable of would be to one day fade into oblivion as easily and readily as his shadow
at last he stood on native soil, yet remained groundless still.
they remained susceptible to longing, for bliss was but the shadow of desire.
he was content knowing that the world would remain conjecture.
with few exceptions, they preferred the luxuriant, the profuse, the fertile. yet seeing that they would often lose themselves within it, she had her ways to remind them of the essential.
he had settled into a solitude that he shared with all.
many found her vague or inapparent; yet she was anything but. whenever necessary she would supply the world as proof.
it was also necessary to become aware that blood coursed through the veins of silence.
for those who had lost sight of her, she left a trail of tears dappling the pale blue of the sky.
others found suns where there was only light.