Elusive Sanctuary

In the lee of a strong memory I thought sanctuary could be had. If there were an experience conclusive in denying other incidents the power to assuage or to torment me, then all of the incidents preceding the Big Incident would be after all an elaborate and purposeful series of events all logically linked to bring me home; I've not found the one. Many seek a messiah fashioned from tangible cloth, though the Messiah himself might have trounced that tangibility in favour of something more ethereal; but I'm interested in the thing within not born of me alone; not a fleck of DNA transmuted through various interactions with the environment; and not a pigeonholing menagerie of images designed to capture my energy; but an intimacy born in the colluding moment of all, where I and another felt through our insecurities and embraced them together; spelled out our dreams with backward letters intact and sacrosanct, almost venerable; touched each other in the weird wending fabric of space-time to find in the endless question we ask ourselves an answer not of finality but persuasave conciliation, a way-station stable enough to support us into the next phase of existence (whether as a splattered molecular morsel for the earth or as spirit--bound or unbound--in a dimension people speak of and insinuate themselves into). I don't seek the Argo; the Bounty would better serve: a vessel with no return once paradise has been promised, the paradise lost on earth. Would that I were referring to the Garden, Le Jardin, bougainvillea and tulip and lush, munching berry bushes and dairy squirted from variable teat. No. I want a memory that precludes the ability for another to hold sway: that is all; that is enough; that is more than what many can have and I am sure what most people would seek if they knew they sought peace. One of the astounding things about her and those like her in this respect is how they can shuffle off the past like it were a tic, something to be correct, obdurate mustard stains; or else something to be bow-tied and placed gently in a music box that can periodically be opened for solace, a touch of the old to ground the new or make it bearable. Ah, maybe the latter's the thing I want after all: armour, invincibility. Yet how frail, if that is the sole want. How frightened, quailing before the novel worse than a child since children never really do...the loitering appeal of youth, not blinkered and sauntering forward with a jutted chin.

I worry for the boy.
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