I’m One so-
I’ve caught myself looking out windows lately. Sometimes from my house, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, whether I see that little bush in my lawn or another bush from some place else—it’s all the same, perhaps that’s why I’m driving so much. To really be moving, yes—all around, to get to know things—perhaps the same things.
I wasn’t going to hint at it, but how old am I, if I can do this? Opening the blinds, seeing just a little of what is only nearest to the window and never what is behind. Behind the mirror, I mean. The window. I can’t see things like I dreamt I would, but why should I have expected that—if I couldn’t even touch an inch beyond it. If not even one color would blur around the edges.
I was never going to be this way, never let myself say the things I say. But I had no idea—like a lost chariot in heaven’s golden arch, circling. It was desperatation to see the sun, the sun, like I felt it, like all the ways I had seen it in so many other places. I was going to see it even if I were to black it out—with hypocrisy.
Not long ago one woman passed. Everything reminds me of it. Nothing was better than it.
We sat.
I said, “Oh, back home it was always second-hand what I learnt.”
She asked why just as slowly as she later walked away—just like these words-
“My mother taught me, but she never intended, these little codes. I relied upon her being there, so that as I broke the code, I was able to confirm it, by the way she messaged again.”
She wasn’t pleased, she smiled and gave her thanks, while I ate.
“No really, I just wanted to see my mother another day. Yes, that’s what I meant.”
Oh but I knew what I meant. Everything I said was apt to be confused by something else. This wasn’t something I chose, but was always, and I could see it, because of the other person. They did want another story, but not the other story I was always able to talk about. There was this story, I always wanted to hear from myself, about what it would be like to see things just as doubly as my words portrayed. Just as simply as I could mention such a beautiful day, while knowing it was only this way because a certain something loomed another way—the sun I take it, as burning beautifully. I wanted to see things as I touched them and felt them softer the more I was aware.
But to this day, the sun is not matched, no double to pass it. Yet, I have arrived willing to see the sun, and touch it like a passive blinking of my eye.
Nothing is moving—don’t tell me you can’t feel it. It’s right in back of what was last.
The One End.
