Traveling on, panicking often, trailing behind you some thin residue of anxieties. A veil of disquiet following every individuated gesture, as you lean forward to crack your collarbone, which hurts, and to press into the world, persistently, a reckless dance against entropy. Futile pursuits are everything. 'While the hemlock was being prepared, Socrates was learning a melody on the flute. "What use will that be to you?", he was asked. "At least I will learn this melody before I die." Things go with you, they follow you around as if you’re leading. And you are, whether or not you know which direction. Joining your shoulder-blades you walk through the oval hallway, wherein photos of you line the curving walls, eyes gazing and aware, all eyes watching and judging and knowing far better than you do. You remember these times, this future self, this wiser, brighter, more careful self. You were there for all of it. You’ve already learned this lesson, forgotten it, relearned it, and repeated this process until you were old and you were gray. And today, in this lighting, with these ambient sounds and the particular folding of this fabric, the lesson makes sense again. Reassurance in the shape of a gentle fist, a self-fist, a careful willingness like the lift of a low breeze. There, in full view, you remain whole. Look, you haven’t vanished. You haven’t condensed into a single drop. You’re spread safely. Composure becomes you, a river awakens inside, a warm rain has paused to reveal a gentle yellow hue among the pines that rises, slowly, steadily, upward. One, two, one, two, the words come without pretense or obsessive intrusion, they are simply a tracker, a tracer. You trace the outline of time with your fingertips tip tapping now at your neck just beneath your jawbone. Your fleshy animal dispenses with its ungentle tendencies, its violent self consciousness and intrusive awareness of the souls around you. What if, for a moment, you refused to cross into others uninvited? Have you ever considered your empathy to be a form of trespass? An enterprise consisting of your own pilgrimage through freezing dark deserts, an oasis in the form of another, your own arrival and knocking upon the inn door. But there is no room, there are no vacancies save those secret inward crevices to be filled with love and time. And so the individual of you walks forward through the oval hallway into the wooly antechamber of the dream, unreflectingly and without explanation.
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