woman of a 1000 years.
i could never believe myself born from the sea: were i birthed from any part of this world, it must be the earth: just like the oak and the willow, the camellia and the peony, my feet sink deep into the soil; my fingers bloom forth from my hands -- like leaves upon branches -- like petals upon a stem.
we traveled far across the land, through cities known and unknown; through lands where feet seldom tread. with each breath i became one with the earth, became one with the mountains and the trees -- the lakes and the rivers -- and together we spoke an uncommon language -- a language without words or vowels, without letters or consonants, made up only of concepts and principles and thoughts. i was alone and not alone; i was surrounded -- hand to foot to shoulder and thigh -- but the only discourse were words to a page; the only voices were tunneled through wires and in stereo-sound.
we arrived, and i spent many of my days in a room enveloped with rich histories and stories untold; with great wealth yet undiscovered: a light fixture animated with the push of a button, rather than the toss of a switch; a photograph of a skeleton, donned in labcoat and black-rimmed glasses, styled with all the dignity of an esteemed professor -- a pithy messaged scrawled across the front; a poster of a dragon, and on another wall, of the many galaxies; figures of legendary creatures: a pegasus, a chimera, a winged serpent; books rife with adventure, narrating the tales of heroes and heroines and unworldly things; drawings enclosed beneath the table, languished in neglected talent. the walls were painted a soft blue, and the bed was tiny and uncomfortable, was dressed in stiff white sheets and covered with a paper-thin quilt: many afternoons would i sit at its edge and peer out the window, watching the empty street below, where no one ever crossed or came; where no car passed through but to welcome itself to that house.
years swept forward and swept past; bodies went in and bodies went out; streets traced themselves unfamiliar, and memories were all that were left of that little room: and there it still remains, but no longer the same.
//
and of everyone, my dear catherine, have you known: of love and loss; of loneliness and living alone; of sorrow suffered in silence. childhood fantasies gave way to absolute truths: no man is a prince, no home a castle -- no horse has ever borne wings. love is a duplicitous thing: it is neither artless nor naive; it is no safer than the blade of a knife: one should not gift affection to those whom unwillingly receive it.
Child, you know
How easily love leaps out to dreams like these,
Who has seen them true. And love that’s wakened so
Takes all too long to lay asleep again.
- Rupert Brooke, "A Memory"
we traveled far across the land, through cities known and unknown; through lands where feet seldom tread. with each breath i became one with the earth, became one with the mountains and the trees -- the lakes and the rivers -- and together we spoke an uncommon language -- a language without words or vowels, without letters or consonants, made up only of concepts and principles and thoughts. i was alone and not alone; i was surrounded -- hand to foot to shoulder and thigh -- but the only discourse were words to a page; the only voices were tunneled through wires and in stereo-sound.
we arrived, and i spent many of my days in a room enveloped with rich histories and stories untold; with great wealth yet undiscovered: a light fixture animated with the push of a button, rather than the toss of a switch; a photograph of a skeleton, donned in labcoat and black-rimmed glasses, styled with all the dignity of an esteemed professor -- a pithy messaged scrawled across the front; a poster of a dragon, and on another wall, of the many galaxies; figures of legendary creatures: a pegasus, a chimera, a winged serpent; books rife with adventure, narrating the tales of heroes and heroines and unworldly things; drawings enclosed beneath the table, languished in neglected talent. the walls were painted a soft blue, and the bed was tiny and uncomfortable, was dressed in stiff white sheets and covered with a paper-thin quilt: many afternoons would i sit at its edge and peer out the window, watching the empty street below, where no one ever crossed or came; where no car passed through but to welcome itself to that house.
years swept forward and swept past; bodies went in and bodies went out; streets traced themselves unfamiliar, and memories were all that were left of that little room: and there it still remains, but no longer the same.
//
and of everyone, my dear catherine, have you known: of love and loss; of loneliness and living alone; of sorrow suffered in silence. childhood fantasies gave way to absolute truths: no man is a prince, no home a castle -- no horse has ever borne wings. love is a duplicitous thing: it is neither artless nor naive; it is no safer than the blade of a knife: one should not gift affection to those whom unwillingly receive it.
Child, you know
How easily love leaps out to dreams like these,
Who has seen them true. And love that’s wakened so
Takes all too long to lay asleep again.
- Rupert Brooke, "A Memory"