Letters to the Double, Written on the Wind
There is a certain sound the wind makes in the night. I cannot call it a voice or even a whisper, just a murmuring of some ancient memory that stirs me awake from a fitful fevered sleep, to find myself sitting up in bed, legs crossed, head tilted forward, pillow clutched to my chest, and the scent of you sketched on the cold, cold air of the darkness as if you were standing there in some otherrealm of the multiverse, in some reality where we were just children on the beach together, then sweethearts, then an old married couple rocking together on a wooden porch held together by the gossamer filaments of a love that transcends all reason in order to become the reason itself.
Sometimes you have even encouraged me to play with such thoughts, and in fact I recall you once scolded me for daring to call them 'fantasies'. "Everything begins with a thought," you said, and I heard the words as if for the first time. "Think of me as a fantasy and that is all I will ever be. Dream me with the force of your unreasonable longing, and I cannot help but be everything you want me to be, for that is the nature of energy in motion, the manifestation of creation through the relentless application of Intent."
I remember the night long ago when we had that conversation, and now it comes again, still riding on the broomstick of the wind, no doubt, returning to my haunted room at a time when I need to hear it most. Nothing is impossible except what we determine to be impossible, and even then the determination itself is only a thought which may be eliminated with another thought that whispers in your voice, "All things are possible."
I wonder at times where it is all heading, and why the journey seems so fast, just a drop of mortal blood on the vast canvas of the infinite, but even as that thought finds its way to the surface again, I can almost see you like some illumined portal set against the shadows - an outline of light in the shape of a man through which the entire scope of all things may be accessed. The stars are only grains of finite dust against that mind-boggling tapestry, and all things that can be imagined only a thimble-full of wine in the bottomless cup of all possibility.
The wind stills, gusts again, and seems to be laughing. The scent of you presses closer. The totality of myself embraces me, and I hear my heartbeat like a tiny fluttering of wings somewhere in the night that never ends.
"By allowing the impossible, you discover what is real," you tell me, like a lover whispering secrets.
So said the wind in the middle of the night. And so it shall be.
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