#303 - Wrodless

Are there places where we go that words may not follow? The bliss of holding a child in your arms, the lover's caress, the unity with a nightsky that no matter how many shares and likes an instagram feed might generate will fall short of a novel of chapters? And then there is the other unity - the death of a person who you believed would never be separated from you. Couldn't not bear thinking about. The very conception of the idea was an invasion into the most painful, unprotected recesses of your soul and yet, entirely stripped you of skin? What of that? What is the point of thinking? Of speaking? Of writing? What? Here is where words go to dissolve. Where words terminate in silence, like snow disappearing even as it touches the ground.

Our failure to achieve immortality is only second to our failure to live with death. It seems idiotic, paradoxical. Why when the only thing we can be sure of in being alive is that we must die, do we end up not preparing ourselves for that which is inevitable. And yet somethings are not inevitable. Certainly not someone being taken too soon, leaving too early. These things in the rubric of dimension 4 are not inevitable. When things are not allowed to ripen, cannot ripen, fall too soon, prematurely, the terrible, terrible tundra, a snow wasteland emerges from what was supposed to be a stretching field of transformation and change. Now, nothing.

What is the purpose of words? To give meaning, to fill a void, to bring comfort and meaning, to.... what IS the purpose of words when at the most important points in our lives they suddenly betray you to become trite, egotistical, bombastic, pointless, unnecessary?

There are no words. Here and no further, the trail that words may follow ends.

So we peer into the gloaming. This is the threshold. Here, and no further.

We cannot follow. Not only can we not follow them to keep them safe, but at the same time, concertinaed before us, is the life which was meant to have been lived. The milestones we were supposed to be there for until we had lived ours. 

There is no contemplation for... there is nothing left to contemplate. Here we arrive at the cliff's edge. At a cliff's edge we can only do one thing - we can either go forward and follow or, we must turn back and as we do that, we retrace the steps, filled with regret, sorrow, suffering, forcing ourselves to remember the joy, the times we had when we could have had them. Only this makes sense, only here can we live. We sit for as long as we must at the cliff's edge, and then everyday visit it in our thinking, because thought is a marvelous thing, and then we must make our way back and through. Or not.

There is no right thing. 

What are the rituals for this? So awful that we only things our suffering could bring us was to either condemn it, or ... to have nothing. To gaze into space. 

Time took this from us. Blame time.

There is no one else to blame. 

There are no more places. 

Everything adrift, in pieces, dissolving shard after shard after shard.

Washed away. Not a trace. So too we will all head this way. But for now, tarry awhile, wait a little longer, and make some memories. Little trinkets, momentos, prints - for now. A photograph, a water ring, a fragment, a sharpened stone. One more time... stay and make one more memory before you leave. Stay, tell one more story, throw another log on the fire, wait for the light to arrive, stay, be here, sit. Know this, that you are loved, have always been, will always be. And thank you, thank you for absolutely everything. I will not say goodbye, but till we meet again.