Fiction
Falling
11
—
Of course, the words began to float, filling the air with their slight incantation, nothing so obvious that I actually notice. That is for another time. I get up, brush imaginary dirt off my coat sleeves, then set out, determined this time to let nothing slip out of my grasp. The day opens, in a way I have not seen before. The light is there, that much is for sure, more than that I don't want to presume. Her smile carries me off – if it had arms I would say that those were what supported me, but it is just there, like the Cheshire cat, grinning away, letting itself go for the sake of all the time that is going to come, and that has already arrived. Her smell lingers as well, but I try not to think about that. The vapors that are washing over me do not have any fixed shape, not even temporarily, but they do have a texture, although it is very subtle. It is in this texture that the words find a place that is more or less stable, and from there they emanate out into the sky and down through the earth around my feet. Her presence I have already forgotten, but I am not fooled this time. The secret, if such a thing can be said to exist, is simply in not letting myself think about the question at all, which means not trying to remember her face, her smile, anything at all.
After that, it will all fall into place. Of course there will be difficulties, that is standard. Difficulties do not describe anything unusual. It is when the out of the ordinary appear that there are grounds for worry. I turn away from the vistas that spread out before me, preparing myself for something, although the usual tasks demanding their moment of attention do not appear, or at least, I am too busy to notice their arrival. She has left me with this, I am not sure if I can call it a word, although some elements of it are in fact bound within that term, but not enough to allow me to really get a hold of the matter. This is of course her modus operandi, and so I am not surprised.
The rain that had fallen drifts further down to the ground, having stopped halfway, about eye level, for reasons I cannot fathom. But the ground is no wetter, and the dried soil still puffs up in little red clouds of dust behind me as I walk away, not sure exactly how to fit myself into an increasingly odd world. Then that thought too drifts away, embarrassed for itself I have to suspect, and not able to show its face around its peers any longer. Small bushes push up through the dried orange–hued soil, their leaves thick and oily looking, so dark that the green almost looks black. In the midst of a particularly thick clump of leaves, a small translucent flower pokes out into the harsh sunlight, as if it were probing for hospitable conditions, and was not sure if the current ones met its criteria. I bend down to look at it more closely, unable to determine exactly what color it is, since its translucency seems to absorb the colors around it. It might be a sort of magenta I finally decide, although I wouldn't swear on that.
A few small drops of water are visible on the leaves, held in place by the densely packed hairs that cover their surfaces. The water sinks into the leaves, which return to their oily glow as soon as they have dried completely. I get back up, looking around the dusty plain, knowing that, like everywhere I have been, I have been here before. The trick is learning how to stop looking, I remember. How to stop. That formula sounds so simple, almost perfect in its elegance. The sky has cleared of the clouds from which the rain had presumably fallen, the moon is visible despite the light of the sun. All in all it seems like a perfect condition. For what of course I don't know. And then there is that awkward stirring, that feeling that something is not yet done, and something remains to be worked out or in. I am unclear as to the direction. Without knowing it, I have crossed several miles of this crumbled terrain. Behind me the plain stretches out, broken here and there by low lying hills, above which circle small black specks I take for birds. In the middle distance a few low houses I do not remember passing blend almost seamlessly into the earth, and around me the low bushes have grown larger, not quite the size of trees, but getting closer.
I am afraid to touch anything, I don't want it to disappear, the day, the day is so odd, I can't seem to get my hands around it, my head, that is something I'd rather not talk about. Forget freedom for the moment, let's just concentrate on the present. That is better, dreams, those have been stale, mere reworkings of yesterday. Somehow, I forgot to breathe, an odd thing really, not deserving of much attention at the moment, but growing into a problem that had little promise of solution. This is an odd thing, but fades as I take a few more tentative steps into the air that is so dry that my lips chap and then crack at the sides. I have not held onto this dream, it has held onto me. The very deepest layers that surround me, more real than anything you can ever hold in your hand, those are never fooled.
She smiles, lets down her hair, soft and brown, dreaming of just this moment, holding onto a memory too, she is romantic, she wants the world for herself, and me, she holds out the merest hint of something, so faint I can almost not see it, so deep that it appears to most to be nothing but a sea of black. That is the place, however, I need to get going towards, the temptations, the promises, the dreams themselves, all these are worthless, and do nothing but hold me back. I have come and gone, I have seen not so much, but the days still made their way with calm insistence. I am romantic too, the dream never lets go of me, I sit, stand, walk, whatever, waiting without knowing why, sure without being sure why, everything has its place, I am in the water without feeling its wetness, then the sandy soil is under my feet and I look up at the sky, not sure what has happened. The finely honed tools I thought might help me lie abandoned somewhere behind me, having fallen without my notice, too far back to be worth turning around for, and besides, the weight had been getting to me.
I had been a fool to think I was finished, when I had hardly even started. If I can ever work this out, that will be a good day. I will wait, patiently, then go on about my business. The turning point, hmmm... when did that happen? Good question. I'm not really sure, it came, I was watching, I dreamt, the night was filled with tossing and turning, not to mention the odd little lies I had been living with, then I woke up, not sweating, not screaming, not anything at all, just another morning. But different nevertheless.
What this difference is, was, might become, this is a giant nothing, a hole that eats my thoughts with gentle determination, persistent, pushing, steady in its forward progress, steady in its failure to greet each day with a smile that acknowledges that it might be wrong once again.
The journey? The journey is over, I have gotten to where I was going, I arrived without knowing anything had happened, I set foot in a railway station, holding shyly onto a present I hoped would satisfy, and maybe serve to explain a little bit of what it was I had been doing, where it was I had gone, and how I thought it might have served me, all fantasies of course, but fantasies that managed to hold their grip over me, over my thoughts, over the stretched out hands that seemed almost to beg for solution. It's odd, the idea that the journey is really over. It hardly seems that way, not really. What will happen to all that pushing, that shoving aside, that dreaming, that soft–voiced allure that calls and calls then falls silent the moment that it thinks it has been heard? No matter, really, for the question, that is the first and last of it. Everything else, that is an obscenity, a challenge to our will, a pathetic attempt to draft us into its cause for fame or money. These things, they are more tragic than anything else, as are the people who fall for them.
With that I know I have reached a pinnacle of sorts, craggy, jutting out over the sea of clouds, shredding dreams into mincemeat, pushing itself out over the day, pushing and pushing and then pushing some more, unsure why, but sure that nothing would be worth it were it not for this pushing. I am relieved, really, there was something, there was nothing, there was a tide pulling at my feet, there was the cry of a seagull, lonely against the pounding of the waves, but sure somehow, in a way I would be hard pressed to identify. That was were it stood.
If it was to be a flood, then let it be a flood, if it was to be a trickle, then let it be a trickle, nobody could help in this moment, so there was no reason to look for help. Nobody could give anything at all, whatever was needed had already been provided, it was simply up to me to provide the pot into which the ingredients could boil and coalesce. The mechanics of it all were not of much interest to me. Neither were any other aspects, it all came down to working more than you thought possible in order to achieve a condition of cautious advance without the benefit of planning in any traditional sense of the word. But not too much caution. That would be death, always there was the question of balance, but not balancing on one foot or the other. My balance, that is something I don't even have to try to ignore. My balance is the thing that keeps me from singing a song at the wrong time, the words that spray out over the horizon are not really more than elements of dreams of forgotten moments inside of which fly little raindrops, a thousand hued, no, make that a million, every one of them is the key that will unlock its own door, and everyone holds out greater and greater promises which tend to lie withering in the middle of the long commute home, smashed into the airwaves that try to keep you sane, following a thousand other cars, a thousand other trails, all remarkably like your own.
Better to just let the flood wash it all away. There are no words adequate, no thoughts persistent enough to hold themselves as substantial, no trials that promise the words that keep the dreaming sands from coating the insides of my eyes again. I cannot find the answer anywhere, it is floating inside of me, and will stay there until I let it out again, over and over until only I and it can really say what is going on, then, later, only it. And this is all exactly how it should be. There is no need to modify the hand of destiny, it holds its cards no matter what you do, the only choice lies in deciding to play your hand or not. Everything is stable in that moment, the world pauses to take a breath, the sky moves slightly, the evening begins to let itself go, just a little, enough to keep itself from going completely mad.
I stand there, offering this up, unsure again, but sure at the same time, sure of each little piece, sure of the death that follows, sure that misuse of any gift can never be anything other than fatal. I want this to be understood, I am not sure why, not sure even of how, but sure that there will be many other days exactly like this one, sure that the first and last rays of the sun will be enough to keep me alive. And that is all there is to that. My breath slows, having found a place, finally, where it can rest. The days wonder off, the silence is the beginning, the place where I know nothing can fail to find itself.
The pieces, they had been collecting, aligning themselves, working themselves into frenzies, shaving off unnecessary elements, then stretching for a view while the sun flamed down, shouting out its words so clearly that it was no wonder nobody had the sense to pay attention. That could not be helped, the world had to go on, the sky had to burn, if only to keep itself amused. It simply remains to be seen what will come of it all, I won't be able to be there to say, I thought it might have been my job, but I wasn't qualified. Error is always the sign of something, what however is the key that remains so illusive. So it is better to follow the signs. That way is the way preferred by fools. Then the other matters may take care of themselves, they may not. Either way leaves me out of the loop. As long as I don't think, ever, that I have reached any end. And so on.
I look around, wondering if I have gotten anywhere, wondering if there is a where to go, wondering if there is a place to put my feet, wondering a thousand wonders, not one of which is going to reach the point. I am in the midst of a desert, the sky is a harsh golden red, very surreal, I am not in fact sure I am where I thought, I am only sure that the day is finally here, in all its glory. Not like I thought it would be, not the inklings that had been stirring, not the words that had been forced into an uneasy truce, no, only the hazy outlines of an unfinished nightmare, only that would finally show me that there really was no other place to be. It all came down to listening long enough to hear what is around you, around me, around all of us, when we give ourselves the time to see.
Then the night begins to fall, slowly at first, then with rapidly increasing darkness. But it doesn't matter, doesn't in fact mean a thing. The plain had stretched out in front of me no matter which way I turned, with only the odd depression here and there to mar the smoothness of its surface. It is simply a matter of realizing that it doesn't actually matter, these things are just tricks that keep us from moving. Everything under my feet is not new, the sandy soil itself, that could have been here a thousand years ago for all I know. What does matter is the effort, clean, restrained, not willing to waste itself on foolish activity, but not wanting to sit there with a moonfaced smile either. More than this I probably should not say.
I look up, wondering at the stars that have begun populating the heavens. The sky seems to have a lingering glow, like a fire that has not yet given up even though all of its fuel has been used up. My steps have an odd sound, echoing, almost reverberant. Maybe there is something under them? It is hard to tell, the night air does strange things with the sound, making it hard to accurately judge what is going on. Then the sky flashes, very briefly, so much so that I almost think it was my imagination, or some error in my eyes. But the flash had thrown a shadow, ever so quick to vanish, but unmistakable, and certainly not something my eyes could invent so quickly. I pause to take a breath: the sky breathing flames, that is what it comes down to. I am not sure what this means. The thoughts flurry a little, as if they were a drift of snow hit by a sudden gust of wind. Then the night begins in earnest, the sky having burned itself so completely that there remains only a pure blackness, unmoved, unmoving, final in its complexity, spinning around a thousand variants of that one blackness, each taking its turn with a certain enthusiasm that might, for an outside spectator, be difficult to understand.
But there is no need to understand; that is the point that I cannot help but begin to get, slowly, with great difficulty, my insides churning with apprehension, my world caught off guard, my eyes lifted up to try to find patterns in the swirling blackness overhead. Everything has found its place, things are complete, the sky is only the calling agent, the earth below my feet the echo, and I, well, I am interested, more than interested, fascinated, spellbound, riveted, unable to look away. Fortunately for me the sun is gone, participating in the feast of blackness with an abandon that seemed almost unbecoming for such a pivotal part of our lives. But such considerations have little effect on me. I am happy to suck in the spinning shades of black, happy to let the world rip me from my moorings, happy to let it all float away, happy for once to sit back with a smile realizing that finally the pieces have all fallen into place. That came as a surprise, sometime in the last few minutes, and will surely go again just as quickly. I turn away, almost embarrassed at what I am thinking, unable to give it a name, which in itself is quite unusual, or at least, the point is, the main point, that I don't want to give it a name at all. I am satisfied with the condition, and find myself more than ever willing to let it rest there, neither asleep nor awake, but alive nevertheless.
I rise, unsure, not even having been aware I was not standing, not sure at this very moment if I am actually standing, as I believe myself to be, or if I am elsewhere, in some other condition altogether, and have entered into a state where my body, my motions, my very awareness, have all been absorbed into a larger dream, completely out of my control. My feet feel solid nevertheless, their soles striking the surface with a thud that jolts my leg with every step. That kind of detail seems somewhat excessive if this is just somebody's dream, or my own. The blackness remains, luckily, for it is all I want to see. I am tired of visions and dreams that never let me go, eyes that spin back into their sockets, lights that flash off and on a thousand times an hour, or faster. All of it has become a game, but a game without any purpose. Not that that is any condemnation; in fact, that should really be a recommendation, a funnel down which I should pour myself with abandon. But it doesn't seem right, so I don't. I could, I should, but I don't. The night continues unabated, the darkened spaces vibrate with an odd urgency, speaking to me about subjects I had not only never learned, but had not even heard about in the vaguest of senses.
And that is as it should be. The journey is never to the end of this dark light, that is the mistake, made over and over again, but rather stops here, precisely here, so exact that the moment could be laid out in stone, engraved as a sacrament that nobody knows a thing about but follows blindly to the death anyway. It is in the word, the ache, the tears, the work that will never let us go. Then the press on, the urge that simply will not let go, the drive to move without knowing why, the sigh into the wind that has sprung up out of nowhere, leading aimlessly like a compass spinning around and around, confused, burning with the same question, the only question, the singular point around which we all revolve, no matter how clever, no matter how much we pile between it and us.
The light, the dark, the sun, the night itself in its waves of black, all these have combined to give place to a moment, this moment, and out of this moment, whatever comes comes, whatever leaves behind, remains, dead, broken, lifeless, refusing to give up, refusing to allow that ridiculous doubt to creep in, even for one millisecond. Not to say it doesn't seep in anyway. But its welcome is non–existent. And its departure even more brief, no time for goodbyes or hellos, just a quick wave of the hand, the sky parts then, as if it had been waiting, but nothing is revealed, the visions will not deliver today, the night will not break, the angle between the sun and the moon has increased just enough to let whatever it was that was floating between them in. I stand back, not wanting to say anything, but relieved nevertheless, almost happy, but not quite, since that might jeopardize the whole affair, and that simply won't do. I close my eyes, not wanting the vacuum to disappear, but not at all sure how to let it stay. A thousand voices echo, more silent than any ending, more final than death, more beautiful than any music I have ever heard, and the sad thing is that I will never ever be able to give you even the tiniest part of that, not a speck, not a whisper, not even the vaguest hint. And that too is exactly as it should be, in fact, the whole matter almost seems to be going like clockwork. So maybe it really is just best to let it tick away, on its own, for itself, for whatever future it is calling out of its hiding place.
With that my feet drift slightly, losing touch with the ground, hovering above the dried soil that had been up until a moment ago puffing up with every step, or at least so I had assumed, the darkness of course denying me the chance to confirm or deny the presence of this dust, ever present before the setting of the sun, but now only hypothetical, something I carry with me to assure myself of a foundation that has long since grown far more than questionable. I sigh, moving through the air, feeling it as it pulls my skin, my eyelids, then entering my lungs, filling them with a solidity that would make me think of drowning or worse were it not so absurdly pleasant. I let the sigh go and close my eyes, satisfied to drift, and in this drifting, to find the moments as they come, unplanned – not welcome, not avoided, just there, just in time, and definitely just right.
The question has really been in my hands all along, quivering there like a small child afraid of something that he has seen in a dream and which he knows can actually kill him, even though nobody believes him when he tries to explain to them what is happening. Then the night ends abruptly. There was no indication whatsoever; one minute it was dark, the sky still spinning off its infinite shades of black, the next it is light, the crack of orange appearing at the split of the horizon, the vague shadows that still have no substantiality, everything that was suddenly no more, and everything that is, fresh, and soon to be alive. That makes the steps easier to make, the air easier to breathe, the sky maybe a thousand times a thousand times more full, more vibrating, more pulsing, more of everything, and then there is the question of the birds.
They appear first in the distance, as specks against the dim orange that announces the coming sun, the streaks of light acting like screens against which they throw their silhouettes. I might not even have noticed them, but for the sheer number, which made the specks take on small cloud–like shapes. Then I close my eyes. The first breath I take is rough, rasping against my throat as it leaves my body. The second less so, and the third I do not notice at all. The light expands, filling more and more of the horizon with its glow, until finally it has colored half the sky with its reds and oranges. I have never tired of seeing this, even though I do not see it enough. Then the day becomes night, the night day, in such rapid succession that I am not sure if the light is here or gone, black or day. My head spins as it tries to keep up with it all, finally my neck grows stiff and refuses to follow the changing sky. I look down at my hands, then begin to wonder about the whole affair. The journey has been broken off, it has stopped, it remains so unblinking that I am not at all sure of anything, but that does not stop my steps, at least for the time being.
Then the light stops its alterations, settling on a yellowish glow that I assume means that the sun is just about to appear. I close my eyes again, praying to a god I have no idea of, except for the sensation that it is not a mistake. Rather than question, I simply put my hands out to feel the rays of the coming sun, sure finally that there is no need at all to question this one thing. Whatever the result, whatever the premise, I have seen nothing, heard nothing, and finally, despite all the garbage I have poured into my head, know nothing. All my preparations, all my plans, all my dreams and even fantasies, all fall to one side or the other, unprepared to stand alone they do not stand at all, falling first here, then there, covering the ground around me with a thin film that has no beginning or end. I do not know just what to think about this, even though the air has grown suddenly crisp, the sky itself seems to surge forward, as if there were a god pushing to get more comfortable, or some cosmic accident that resulted in an unexpected pile–up behind the fabric of the heavens. All in all, a normal day by the looks of it.
Small trees begin to grow out of the vanishing darkness, leaving me unsure if they were there all along, and I had just been making my way through them, or if they had just now sprung up, prepared to meet the day with branches creaking slightly in the breeze that has briefly washed over the plain. Their shape reminds me of bottles stuck into the ground, dark wine bottles, sprouting a clump of branches from their mouths, drinking to the sky, who knows what really, but their movements are not sad, that much is for sure. I put my hand on one of their trunks, amazed at how thick it is, compared to the small ball of leaves that crowns it. The collection of trees casts long shadows, creating a latticework affect that makes it hard to see anything. I sit down, resting my back against the tree, then look around, tired. The sun begins to warm my face, the leaves over my head rustle quietly, then the night grabs me, late, but not too, while my eyes close, my breathing slows, every piece is let loose, and begins to fall into its own particular place, in that way that happens when you are not around to watch or think about it too much.
The fact that I have not slept at all begins to pull at my attention. By pull I mean of course that I have trouble focusing on the plain around me. The wind is there, of course. And a faint echo, I want to say it is a voice I have heard before, but it is hard to be sure. There are remnants, like clouds torn apart in the sky, only more formless. And reflections. Of what, again, I am never going to know. That is the price of admission. It's a steep price, that I will happily admit, but so is not paying. I wasn't completely convinced of this, now I am. I strain to hear her voice – this I might as well admit. Things are not the same without her, nothing is the same, the world is bleak, the sky a slightly more bland shade of that blue I wanted to reach up and grab but which now just rolls on by, oblivious. The mechanisms have departed, the naked coils tremble slightly, the words have no real impact, the end has come, gone, come again, over and over, until I can smell the fire and feel the heat. I have no more tools, although I am not naked it would be fair to say that I have been stripped bare. Of course, the spaces I fall into are still there, and will always be there, for anyone willing to do it. It really is never more or less than a question of fear. But a fear that is so ridiculously misplaced, even misguided, for what is feared is nothing at all compared to the reality of ducking, or trying to hide. That leaves you more dead than any death can ever make you, more stale than air in a tomb that has not been opened for one thousand years. If you step on your life, spit on it, throw it away with scornful disdain, well, then your life is gone.
That seems simple enough. Even I seem able to understand that proposition. This has shaken me though. I do not know how to really put a name on it, the memories want to call it one thing or another, but none of those terms seem to quite hit the spot. But something inside of me understands. And moves, quietly, so much so that I look up and down to see if I can see even a blade of grass stirring, but nothing is happening. And still things are moving. Everything, like a giant ball, rolling down a hill. It is all very odd. Because I am riding that ball, you see. But I have exactly zero sense of motion. The wind stirs up a few stray dust particles, then drops them gently back to the ground. The stubby trees do not move, their wood far too gnarled and old to be shaken by a slight breeze, although their leaves do rustle slightly, in a dry, oily sort of way.
I have grown simply too stupid for my own good. That is always a chance you have to take, it's part of life. I have no idea where I am, I have no idea how I can be rolling down a hill while the wind moves the air slowly around me. Nothing at all makes any sense, not even what I thought yesterday. I have accomplished nothing, the world is not only the same, but might even be considered to be slightly worse. In other words, the situation is normal, or normal for the last who knows how long, but longer than I care to think. The words begin to fall away from me, repulsed, frightened, unsure if they can make a home here or not, unsure if the beginning of any day is worth the price we pay to end the last. This is always the calculation we are faced with, it's an individual matter, and is best left up to ourselves to work out. In a way, it's the first and last challenge, the thing that makes every man rise then fall back, tired, beaten, dead to the world, but still unable to quite lie that badly to himself.
It is perhaps because I have been watching the blades of grass bend slightly in the morning breeze that I have missed the larger motion going on around me. The bending if the grasses... of course that is a clue. It is not really necessary to say more, no need to be verbose after all. It is a question of patience, of willingness to sacrifice for what one believes in, even when that belief has lost any and all substantial form, which means that it actually is given a chance to take on its own body, which I will never see, touch, or feel. And there is some sadness in that, for I want to touch it, to walk where I am at home, even as I know that this simply may never be again. It is strange how such small wishes can loom so large. And with that I can rest, finally, my eyes closing once again under the morning sun, the sounds echoing then finally fading away, into a hazy dream where there is nothing at all.
Well, maybe nothing is pushing it. But there is nothing I can talk about. And that is the beginning of a wave of relief. I have pushed, pushed, fought and struggled but the result is always the same. This was written and noted so long ago that it is almost embarrassing to fall prey to the same old game. But this falling, it is the point, it is perhaps why we are here, if any reason is to be given at all. I do not mind falling prey in this way, no, it is a relief, I feel a certain kinship with everyone who has come before me, not so much for those that might follow, that doesn't seem sure enough a proposition to worry too much about anymore. I am standing in the middle somewhere, seeing something that does not exist in a way that cannot be explained, and this makes me happier than anything else has made me in quite a while. The empty spaces are merely the reflection of a mind that I can hardly call my own, but there it is anyway. Following, reclining, resting, all seem more or less the same in this moment, all equally worthful, or less, depending on your perspective.
Within my eyes I find that there actually can be a place, so tiny, so insubstantial that it is not surprising that people miss it. There is no explosion, no fireworks, no thunder, not even a light dew falling on a field covered with grass. A simple indication might, I think, do us all some good, but this sign never comes, being just a little bit too obvious a route. And this is why I feel a sense of relief. It is hard to explain in any other way. Why relief? Why not panic, fear, release even? But it is not me asking, so these questions fall away as less than useless. Then the first in a long wave of what I have long searched for a name for, but have equally long failed utterly to burden in that way, much to its relief, assuming it even cared, which of course it most probably doesn't. The grass bends, the sky burns in that earthy greenish blue way it does when nothing is real any longer. Or when everything is real, I don't know, it's just too hard to say. Because of that, I am silent, for too long I think, but maybe for exactly the right amount of time, there does not have to be any upper limit, no lower limit, no nothing at all, everything has become perfect for this one moment, just long enough to give me a breath of air, a break, a space, a little home that will blow away in tomorrow's wind. Silence can be a beautiful thing, restful, where everything is lit in the proper light for once. And maybe I have nothing else to give. And maybe this nothing else is just exactly right, no more, no less. Just the proper dose, just the proper antidote, just the proper point, into which I now fall, ever and ever so much faster than I could have dreamed possible. There is no in or out, just falling, so you might as well go with it.
Before beginning, after ending, it is exactly here where the last word I breath fell, falls, and might even have the grace to fall tomorrow. More than that I have no right to hope for. I set aside everything, realizing for once that none of it ever was necessary, nor will it ever be, and with that the first glimpse of what I am going to maintain is nothing at all makes itself known, but in a way so out of the way, so subtle, so absolutely ordinary that there is no mistaking it for anything else. It is a crumb, a speck of dust that has floated into view suddenly, a spider making its web in the corner of my room, a creak, a door blown shut, all these things taken both singly and jointly, all growing together in a movement that will never speak louder than this. Because, after all, why should it have to? That is plenty loud, it is not its fault that we cannot take the time to hear, nor is it its fault that the world is just too noisy, plain and simple. It didn't make the noise, and it didn't ask for this ongoing symphony celebrating a huge vacuum that will most probably soon suck us all into its maws. So that is enough, for the moment. I fall for the ordinariness, the plain brown wrapper, the tiny edge that others correctly deem too insignificant to warrant further attention. For they are right, that is what makes it all so beautiful. Every element is perfect, everyone can rest solidly in their opinions, no one need change a thing. The edges are ridges, the words are fire, the wind is a thought that may or may not reach the speed of the light streaming in through the window.
The value, the lack of value, the desire to succeed, all these are exactly equally important, and all have their own little peculiar ways of making this singular fact known to those who profess to have an interest in such things. The eye of the storm brings many small surprises, often in ways that there is simply no way we could have anticipated. And that eye too, it is so tiny, so inconsequential, so utterly able to be deemed irrelevant, simply because there is nothing there, nothing at all, not in any way shape or form, just vacant, staring, blind, empty. It seems odd to dedicate so much attention to this point, but there it is, years of effort, either a pinnacle or a low point of effort, no one can ever say one way or the other. I pass by, first on this side, then on that, then my head turns, my eyes blink, trying to focus into what is not there, feeling that it is, torn into little webs of floating confusion, then breathing once again, always this breathing, return after return after return, all focused in on this non–existent point, this ember that has extinguished, this blade that has bent so low that it has melted into the ground. And who can fault me, really. It is not as if there is a real choice, nor any other weapon that can be picked up with any hope of effectiveness or success. It is all in this exact moment, the one that just passed while you were thinking of something else, the one that is now gone, completely irretrievable, the one that melted into the eye of your television. And on my side, this is the moment I have been looking for, the one that is that you left behind, as not quite right, as maybe but then again maybe tomorrow it will be better – the one, that is, that can never be replaced, and which takes you one step closer to your grave. You probably know the one I mean, it's the one you spent yesterday on your way to work, or in your office, or at lunch, or coming home, or blankly eating dinner while listening to the news on tv. I came by, you had no idea, it didn't strike you as something that could even be considered as even possible, let alone likely. That's why it was such a perfect moment to steal – well, steal is the wrong word, you weren't using it anyway.
My eyes burn, tired from the prolonged effort, but able still to discern the smallest of shapes moving about, around in the corners of my sight, in the places it's not quite possible to pay the right attention to, no matter what your intentions are. Since mine are hardly worth mentioning, I may have picked up a slight advantage, unwittingly, even blindly. Then I know, the dream that had kept me tied into my chair becomes exactly what it always was, and I walk away, not promising a thing, but still knowing that I can do nothing if not this.