Complex skies arranged in colours to make you weep. Surging winter tides that follow dreams to allow waking only when done with you. Restless currents of thought reading and musing, plunging and rearing with mood swings of loneliness, starvation and manic loves. Memory as a landscape in an old painting that you must learn. Illuminated bookmarks and other landmarks that first display, then disable and scheme downfalls. As the appetiser of creation. As a first brushstroke unsure. As a revelation on the many names of beauty.
Setting up to look. Listening to singing from churches beyond you. Mountains now too high and falls too fast and deep. The techniques for painting moving water you learn are an exercise in futile showing off to yourself. Paint everything but the water, you teach. But no one looks. Looking is no longer important. Moving water is no longer seen. You cannot step in the same stream twice.
Give it all to me because I deserve it they say. Not because I have earned any release or esoteric knowledge in this seeking that I dare not do; but just as only I deserve. They say in all mock humility. And they say the meek shall not inherit the earth.
Those who seek have not yet learned. Those who do not will never pass beyond what they are.
This landscape of rock, moss, crag and water teaches all this but only the few can translate into the landscape language of the initiate.
Secret books and grimoire spells hidden in plain sight. .O Beauty too late I have loved thee. Too safe in rock chamfered channels that forever flow only down. Starved in my underground wet waiting room for the next way out. For the next good idea. For the change of pace and the dawning of another age.
I can meditate only on my reflection in your right eye. I can see my way out just in you, my west of the Moon. I can reach only so high. Touching you but briefly with fingertips transmitted through this dead technology. And I will so much to touch your center.
A Confounded Letter to Tell