I have loved you unreasonably, and constantly.
Even though in the end my love was for a wall, life continued to blossom across its cinder bricks. And though I longed to feel the warmth and colour that surely lay beyond that wall, in my yearning I learned to give my own side of it warmth and colour, in my own way.
I was close to death, in the clasp of the last, rational moment before I would never think or feel again. And the final line that I pictured in that last, rational moment: now it's time to die and there is nobody.
When I woke, I realised that my quiet, relentless craving for security had ruined everything. It had put me in the wrong rooms to endure dull situations with a twisted face and a strained smile. It had prevented me from making necessary exits, convinced as I was that if I walked through the door, the threshold would give way to an endless drop. But perhaps worst of all, it had trained me to think in narrow terms - so I could never know the meaning of magnificence.
For all my references and all my solutions, I could look to the end of my nose, and never beyond. And what I was I saw..
A dream, mine, no more real than a whisper. I have dared to dream of a house made from stones.
The arched windows are hollow, the wooden door, fractured. The light on the walls is dark lemon and the silence, immense.
I am walking barefoot on small stones, my hair loose and a mess. Below, I can a linen dress with tiny embroidered flowers, which are fading.
This old ruined house is mine and I will spend the rest of my life restoring it. My love will teach me how to work with wood and how to polish stone. My love teaches me language and the secrets of that language. To become beautiful in the culture of the land, to study its myth. To know the truths of life. To become skilled in something intimate and old.
Even though in the end my love was for a wall, life continued to blossom across its cinder bricks. And though I longed to feel the warmth and colour that surely lay beyond that wall, in my yearning I learned to give my own side of it warmth and colour, in my own way.
I was close to death, in the clasp of the last, rational moment before I would never think or feel again. And the final line that I pictured in that last, rational moment: now it's time to die and there is nobody.
When I woke, I realised that my quiet, relentless craving for security had ruined everything. It had put me in the wrong rooms to endure dull situations with a twisted face and a strained smile. It had prevented me from making necessary exits, convinced as I was that if I walked through the door, the threshold would give way to an endless drop. But perhaps worst of all, it had trained me to think in narrow terms - so I could never know the meaning of magnificence.
For all my references and all my solutions, I could look to the end of my nose, and never beyond. And what I was I saw..
A dream, mine, no more real than a whisper. I have dared to dream of a house made from stones.
The arched windows are hollow, the wooden door, fractured. The light on the walls is dark lemon and the silence, immense.
I am walking barefoot on small stones, my hair loose and a mess. Below, I can a linen dress with tiny embroidered flowers, which are fading.
This old ruined house is mine and I will spend the rest of my life restoring it. My love will teach me how to work with wood and how to polish stone. My love teaches me language and the secrets of that language. To become beautiful in the culture of the land, to study its myth. To know the truths of life. To become skilled in something intimate and old.
