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Nov. 20th, 2006 01:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
proximoceptionIt is mine to do, and therefore mine to have. I say farewell to all that made this possible, and feel it blur behind me into something in a peaceful dark. Lit by the forward push of my love a mattering world spreads itself out before me. With each patch meaning so much to my step, which it sustains, with so much happening for itself, distilling something more for me with every dying away, the ground I walk on serves as its own map. How marvellous, that I am each way free. My quest is self-appointing as I go, with no directive but that man within, whose step I emulate, or happenings of such color, and color of color, that I am sucked in. How sweet that all is always already happening, in awe-met structures and vortices, fresh gestures and possibilities coursing all through all and me.
And what it all is is but the toe of what it is to me. I meet each wave and, meeting, gather it into my own forth and uprushing. The strands of all I apprehend melt like sugar in the burning, flowing me that cups horizons. I fall in love with so many of my makings--but not so deep or long that there are fresh impulsions missed.
What wakes me most are people, of course, who seem at first my echoes, but open out like sunbeams from there to reveal a stir of shapes I need, and know, and never knew, mythologies of fire fire-drawn by fire with fire on fire for fiery needs, that still anon dissolve past full discerning. The which all fades away, at times, behind the suddenly sufficient reality of the smile or other play of the simply human face inspiring it. What more is needed in such moments of I am I and you are you and we are happy?
For all that almost everything is always wondrous well, one sometimes wearies. The ground tugs down and sometimes we should go. This is another mode, thus has another set of pleasures. Here we melt into what is beside us, and find that though at rest it is always falling. We roll, the things and we, to warm forgetful dissolution. The warm floods out all loneliness, prepares the purest cool of self-composure. Seasons slide away out of our pores. The eyes close on the gossiping stars, which just puts gossiping stars inside. They run in lines and pour in sheets and paint a new desire. Ready and dripping self, we start again up and rise downstairs to meet and make tomorrow.
And what it all is is but the toe of what it is to me. I meet each wave and, meeting, gather it into my own forth and uprushing. The strands of all I apprehend melt like sugar in the burning, flowing me that cups horizons. I fall in love with so many of my makings--but not so deep or long that there are fresh impulsions missed.
What wakes me most are people, of course, who seem at first my echoes, but open out like sunbeams from there to reveal a stir of shapes I need, and know, and never knew, mythologies of fire fire-drawn by fire with fire on fire for fiery needs, that still anon dissolve past full discerning. The which all fades away, at times, behind the suddenly sufficient reality of the smile or other play of the simply human face inspiring it. What more is needed in such moments of I am I and you are you and we are happy?
For all that almost everything is always wondrous well, one sometimes wearies. The ground tugs down and sometimes we should go. This is another mode, thus has another set of pleasures. Here we melt into what is beside us, and find that though at rest it is always falling. We roll, the things and we, to warm forgetful dissolution. The warm floods out all loneliness, prepares the purest cool of self-composure. Seasons slide away out of our pores. The eyes close on the gossiping stars, which just puts gossiping stars inside. They run in lines and pour in sheets and paint a new desire. Ready and dripping self, we start again up and rise downstairs to meet and make tomorrow.
