one day i might lose myself in this

prose in three acts. virginia woolf taught me of the ocean.

i wrote this in october/november but am only posting it now. i don't think it has gotten quite to the point that i want it to be, but i cannot keep it sitting in my drafts anymore, i need to be rid of it for now.

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ACT I (or The Appeal) // scene 1 // in despair i force myself to confront the edge. i find myself here almost in routine. sometimes i am so scared. what if i never again see the horizon? and above me, that pure white sky returns; that billowing fullness, that intruding emptiness. i set forth and pretend i am on an expedition. i am so childish. it’s embarrassing, the amount of time i spend imagining. i cannot exist without doing so. to imagine is the only way to give oneself hope, even despite incessant denials. what if, what if, what if are the waves that carry me. will i find myself here forever? all i ask for is a small pearl of certainty.

scene 2 // oh, this edge. it is terrifying and beautiful. to be at the closest and most dangerous point. the most beautiful things are always terrifying in some way— for i think there is no other way to begin trying to comprehend so strong, so stunning, of an existence.

people often come here at sunset, because there is some divine privilege in being at the very edge of both space and time. of being the last to bid the day farewell. i think it is all theatre. the sun sets, the curtains close…

INTERMISSION

[time travel exists in two forms: dreams and memories. sometimes they even combine. aside from that, one is forced to remain in the present. that’s not to say that one is there entirely. you should know by now that things like dreams are too powerful. dreams seek, they rise towards the light. they leave you with a faint scent, an imbued vision, an oddly familiar yet implacable aftertaste. lately, i am dreaming of climbing up hills, my sight limited by tall, soft grasses. i am dreaming of wandering through long creeks, complex ones, like systems of veins. i do not know what it is all for but i continue along these passages, almost against my will. i notice a pattern in these dreams: i am always traveling somewhere, but i am also always restricted in some way, by some immutable force of nature.]

ACT II (or The Eruption) // scene 1 // when i gaze into the sea i see It. a blue so deep it could only be sheltering secrets. this animal stretches nearly to infinity. the unknown. maybe God, for some. the pure white egg, the infinite black hole. a Thing so essential to my Self, a Thing that i fear, that i am fascinated by. a Thing i will incessantly pursue, against my own will. to have faith in It eases the fear but does not subdue it completely. i fear it, but what i fear more is the possibility that i will never, ever grasp it. and more— have others grasped it? has anyone? is it coded within every living being to pursue it and always be left empty handed? am i just blind? delusional? dumb? is it selfish to want something more? the inescapability of my deepest desires makes me feel evil. the logical side of me knows that i will most likely never hold and understand this thing i want, or need. and yet i return, i return, i return.

scene 2 // You— hold my hand and look out at the waves. they are light and mellow for the moment; the air sits calm, the horizon is cotton soft, and i can feel myself stretching out with the land. but allow yourself a few moments to wait. something is always sitting below the surface. look— do you see now, in the distance? how the fog, a slow giant, begins to wake?

INTERMISSION

[the most extreme connection will result only from the most extreme vulnerability. at this point i know that the strongest reward needs to come from the strongest challenge. and it is all much easier said than done. and still/i can’t/not now. but i see us one day, stripping ourselves down to our bones, in pain, and then, really, fully, seeing each other, before at last, recovering ourselves together.]

ACT III (or The Escape, or Time’s Slow Fingers) // scene 1 // is it possible to live without intuitively coping with life in some way? must i feed myself with lies in order to simply breathe? how do i bring myself to live in purity and truth? (somehow i also hate that word, purity— it feels vile, or deceptive.)

up, out, and below are the three delicate pinpoints that keep me in place. tonight is a full moon, and so i must not miss it. i can feel her gradually emerging. that is one pinpoint. with her sterling skin she watches, shines, and guides; always there, she’s dependable, she’s calm, she’s eternal. then there is the sea, ahead of me. the sea is life in its most liberated form; liberation as something freed in it’s essence beyond the concepts of good and evil. and, finally, there is the dirt below me, not entirely cold and lifeless (although in a way that could makes it true/pure in essence) but moving through it are the roots, roots pumping and beating with the last drops of life from the dead that we bury. the dirt as the past; the sea as the present; and the moon as, yes, the eternal future.

scene 2 // as i made my leave i watched the fog move increasingly quicker and thicker from the sea. ferocious fog, hungry fog. danger is always imminent. if i had stayed too long i might have found myself surrounded, and unable to return. today i made it.

(epilogue // but one day i might lose myself in this)