2004-07-27
Closing Thoughts On My Philosopher
Nature and all of its unshakable beauty stands untouched like these ageless marble pillars. Creeks and their undulating ripples are the altars where our imaginations become crafted as we stand before the infinite, vapid, Egyptian-cotton clouds.
And I always describe life as an ongoing stream filled with timeless echoes and wilful waters. Awaking on such a grey, dull morning, I find my mind slowly drowning itself with one thought: that little red book.
I discarded it in the best of all possible ways--tossing the glimmering cover into the lonely stream. Since then, the ink has run and melted with the surrounding waters. The warmth of words now lost to time have become simple echoes, made frigid as the small fish dance over it. And I have had dreams of myself returning to that particular spot and looking down into some precipice and seeing it laying on the ground. With great attempt, I would reach for it, but fail. With the summer rains that have since drenched this earth, the book is buried deeper, and deeper into the dark depths of that dancing brook. The pages containing the expression of one soul, and the greatest disillusionment came in realising that such fleeting feelings were not written in stone. Like the lonely skeleton of a dried autumn leaf, such things are fragile, and shatter once stepped upon. But what truly amazes me is that in those bound pages, that rapid scribble, and beneath that shiny-red cover is a small window of time.
Counting stars and watching infinity slip by like the sand dancing to the bottom of an hourglass, I have wondered how I can possibly make time keep still--how is it that I can trap one instance in a glass box and marvel at it as an audience would the statue of Adonis. But there it is--lying within those pages. This is the work of the human heart; a human heart that once palpated solely for me, and I envy that. Because that book, and the words within it are trapped in that moment of bliss and they skip in circles like mid-summer muses coming to awake some sleeping dreamer. And as time progresses and our souls age; as another heart will one day resonate with mine, we will continue to be those two kissing angels--but only within the pages of that book.
And in finding this out, he would most likely become angered, or hurt at the fact that I would contemptuously toss out the decrees of his soul that once rose up like white smoke and teemed with my essence. Perhaps he would not even make the attempt at understanding why--with tear-blurred eyes--I threw the book in a stream. It was the perfect ending to a perfect beginning, and now I see that spring lotus blossoms must--despite their beauty--wither at some time, as their petals become stained with brown.
�Mystic mysteries loom in the air, and I strike them down to see you better through this blood-mist fog�
And so, on a cold night with the hoot of an owl resonating with the breeze, and shaking of dried twigs and splitting bark; we found one another. Thoughts of watching the countless, solitary diamond stars under this vast, blanketed, velvet ocean of loneliness with you. Unlike Roger, you understood me.
And I am left here, on grey, drizzly mornings wondering whether or not you have completely forgotten our past instances. Like opium, they float and become distilled in the air until my mind is forced to acknowledge these things. These quaint scenes of you and I blanket my head, as I recall our footsteps on the dried pavement--your hand in mine, and a piercingly soft stare from two glacier-blue eyes that watched my every movement.
Hearing Vin�s melodious voice on the other line, hammering sense into my head, I began thinking of him. So after hearing that endless raindrop prelude play in the catacombs of my mind, and after listening to each trickling tear spilled by the looming, black clouds above, I will say that I do indeed love him.
I am not in love with him as I was with my Polish Gabrielle, I love him as I love each one of my dear friends. Realizing that he forms such an intimate part of me, and that I couldn�t fool him for one instance, or that he can usually finish my thoughts, some random angel comes and whispers in my ear--gently--that this is another form of pure, untainted friendship.
My friendship with Al.