window left open

The long-window, one of the gates to the world outside, was still half-open as she made her way out, and I had hearkened, without the active desire, the people outside. In effect, I wished the sound to belong to anything, just anything non-human. I wanted to listen to the wind that was joylessly non-current, the battle of the waves that were not far away, the choir of the void, oh, hang on a second. They started singing. I thank such songs which remind one of a summer long-gone, to further take one to childhood, those archaic times, back when birds were aliens yet their song was natural. Waking up to those rather universal sounds was nothing irrational. If you are, for whatever reason, not able to remember what it was like, I bid thee farewell for thou hath gone so far astray, coming back might take more than what is yet to meet your eyes.

I often think about the paths which resemble the road to “thine-is-the-glory”, where trees arch over and their flowers grace their rounds regardless of the current season, which is always, somehow, a derivative of spring. After all those years, I still am unable to dub a tree with its rightful name at first glance, and the story before your eyes would be better visualized had I been able. The sad truth is that you would not understand the names I accord to such trees. Even if you did, I wish not to hear your judgement, for I assume you would not be speaking fluent bird. If you do, I believe your song should find its way to my ears. This might contact some minds as a curse, under the disguise of a blessing. Do not be afraid, for without such things, living with people would be hellishly boring. So boring one could die.

Such paths, though, I enjoy thinking about ‘em. Such paths must be treated -if not treaded- with utmost respect. Such paths force your hand to be held, making you get rid of whatever burdens you: your hat, your sun-glasses, your shirt, any piece of clothing un-necessary for such rigor. If you are one lucky fellow, there awaits no one but a gathering, a gathering of truths. A gathering of molecules: a lake. The lake further forces you to get rid of your burden, and to give in to something holier-than-thou. Give in to the lake that is ever-clean, for no trespassers had ever been allowed. You might find yourself in, only if you allow yourself to be held by that invisible hand; not the Iron one, not the one you should see looking if you were to set your eye a little differently than now, no.

She came back to tattoo me. She warns me each time that this is black magic, and I find myself excited each time. I see the magic working o’er me, the wills of different people, and I want to see which will should be the one to prevail. I found the answer once, then twice; and I find it difficult the third time should be any different.

The reminiscences of the forest, I could not enumerate. It happened before there was time, after there was time, and when there is time. The red magic still was working, and I find it pretty that it should work. I always find the witch around, and I cannot help myself wondering: why burn such beauty?

We have become less and less enchanted, except for the French who are always enchantée before the potential of beauty. I find myself among those put-spell-on people before active beauty, and this might make me one different breed of creep.

I never believed in magic. I never believed in love. She leaves again. The window is again, half-open. I get to hearken once more. I detest it. She comes back. She leaves. Where she is, is a secret my heart is bound to beat whenever I think about.

Why must the writer undress before the reader? Why is it always the active desire to undress before someone? If there were just too many people you ought to meet with-out your clothes, yes: everybody knows.

I was warned. I am warned. I feel ready to meet my master, but my master is always busy. Always at work. His wife comes to visit me, and sometimes we make love. My master does not bother. He does not take any wives that I am aware of. My master’s wife becomes my master, and the circle continues.

I remember the first time his wife visited me. I was in the forest, and I was with a friend. My friend did not leave, but she took her place. She said to me: “all I hear is your wish for me to go away”. She was right, as always, and she speaks with such a truth that there might exist in the post-truth world we are forced to live in. We live beyond good and evil. We live beyond facts, they became modal. Alas, we live behind blessings and curses, for they are so ancient we cannot reach to touch them. Our wills live in between. We live in-between.

She spoke with her voice. She took her form. She held my hand, and I fell. She knew I was not ready.

Then the music started as if it never started before. She spoke to me in every single note; some, to this day, I wish not to decipher. She told me who I was, and I felt like a child before her glory. The path was clear: she was not a person, not a tree, she was wherever I was. She became me, and I tried and tried not to let myself be; and she never took it personal: she was nobody’s wife after all.

She came back and left again. She does it, I enjoy it. My naked legs feel the current wind. I take a look and see these unnamable trees. I love green. I love magic. I love love. It is impossible to believe in them, for they make no sense. I’m glad, half of the time, to be mad. The other half is where the windows lay open.