The expanse of her soul serves me as ground, as a field with a mountain in the distance to head towards. I stand atop her and walk sure-footedly; or is it perhaps that she walks as I do though the infinite reaches of her deceive me into believing that it is I who walk, like a man who thinks the earth still as he saunters past a tree? The Recoverable Land, she offers and takes nothing but your life at the end of it, when you've expired from utilization of her gifts; this is her only and undeniable request: to succor from the bones which she has fed until the bones grew saturated with usage; until they had grown ignominious in their repetition, had lost all lustre. Then, gently, as you retire to her, she enfolds you, bids you nod, coos in your ear, and has you sink your dispersal into her, scatter self--the dreams inviolate and intact--into her.
No outrage can be had from this tacit pact. The ungrateful or willfully ignorant mewl, balk, protest when the end of their ability to want, which doesn't rely on chronology; which occurs moment to moment and one she has until the person's own nature no longer supports the proposition of continuance, occurs. Ever-earthly and caring, she nods a little, spikes with rage on occasion, never falters in her role.
She has in all respects the attributes of the perfect human being. I would not for the life of me consider not living with her, being her mate, loving her until the very end when love can no longer be had and there is only for naught to continue. I will not cease loving her because she is the generosity of a butterfly's wings set in skewered motion by God and held in awed observance by the child. I could not imagine an ingratitude so great as to ever turn to this marvel of a woman and say to her, "no, the fault was yours." I may as well shake my fists impotently like some melodramatic character to the skies and curses the gods. I would not desist in loving this creature regardless of the vicissitudes of life, regardless of where this existence takes me, regardless of all; for blame's blameless; there is no one upon which to cast aspersions; there are no oppressed and oppressors; there is only this and that and the need for the other (the other as a figure of illusion, to gratify the this or that). The severest act, the only crime if crime is judged to be an act merely of severity (and what else could it be?) is to in luciferian manner deny one's creator. Not because there's an intrinsic baffling evil aspect to it; nor is it as mundane as Arendt's banality; no, it's because to deny one's creator is to deny oneself; and to deny oneself is merely to give back unto the earth more quickly than some others might. And so the self-denier dies young, meets the maggots on their terms and also squirming, uneasy with this unfolding of self to another before it is done. The denier of self is perhaps the most self- sacrificial being of all; for he uses little of himself before returning it to earth. But, then, he always unctuously refuses a gift; and illogically; there must have been reason for it in the first place.
All there is is equilibrium, regardless of the manner by which it is reached. Crimes are only matters of perception and of degree; of delicate considerations; of nuance; never of essence. There is no crime; there is no waste; there is no disparity; there is nothing but all. There is no one standing aglow at the end of the corridor, the promenade, the last avenue and final sigh, than her. She's an infinity, the self-actuating infinity, the infinity that sees itself in the mirror. She is solidified in this act of self assessment, the scrutinizing stare aching to be lateral, striving to circumvent. In her circumvention, she creates, and she finds herself.
As readily as she would receive you she would your compliments, with the same grace that she receives and does everything else; for there is not a thing about her that is not measured by some free state of harmony, grasped with an intuition that bewilders more excitable souls, such as myself. The placating visage she expresses, turns, towards all things, all situations, occluding nothing, tells of her immutability; of her nature as Nature; of the fact that as a mountain rose and will fall and rise again, so will she in a glacially-paced motion you can never observe emulate.
No comments:
Post a Comment