I smelled the change in the air, it smelled like dirt and water and last fall. I looked at the opaque clouds above the misty mountain-tops ahead and wondered if I should press on. Somewhere a fire burned and the smell of family surrounded by a campfire nudged me forward.
I never actually saw that campfire.
But I remember campfires with dragonflys patrolling overhead, I remember the sound of a fire roaring to a finish, I remember the feel of the rocks underneath my back, and I remember stretching out and feeling only myself.
When you think that much…time slows down, you start to feel the arch of time behind your back, and the slow rotation of the earth in front of your eyes. You start to thinking about the slow rotation of the planet through that vast emptiness. Like a stone you threw long ago perpetually skipping across the waves of time. Sometimes those waves come around full circle and what’s left is a disorienting distorted view of yourself. Or perhaps the unexpected view of yourself is the most honest.
I stop, and kneel.
I look at my hands, dry and cold, my arms shaking, or is that just my heartbeat? These hands remember hugging my family – now they hug the trees, hug the branches of the gatekeeper brush ahead, palm the faces of the rocks I traverse, and now carve into the planet a message.
Love much, and love often is the message I left behind – though I don’t remember the exact words. It was, of course, long ago.
What is it about love that transcends space and time? Why do we love the things we don’t understand, and the things we hate we understand too much? Love in the most basic sense occurs when we start to think about the things we cannot live without. Love in the most complex sense refers to the name we give to our insecurities. Both end the same way.
The message I scratch in the dirt is one I hope to come across again someday. Perhaps, one day, when I am reborn as someone else. Perhaps, never. Perhaps, I came across this message long ago and I don’t remember. Maybe I don’t know, and maybe I never will.
I walked awhile until I came across a plain unlike most plains. There was a cottage in the clearing – of this I was certain – but there was also a mountainside upon which it rest and a dense bit of woods behind it. It was morning, and the sun painted an image of sunburst orange and blue trying to mix together like oil and water. I didn’t mind.
What a world I would give up to live in this cottage, I thought, as I set pace at the cottage to form an inquisition against the inhabitant. Step by step, wondering what I would say. How trivial – I thought, when I realized these things are best kept ad hoc – for the best questions are always the ones left unasked.
As I came across the cottage I noticed several things, chiefly among them was that the cut logs on the side of the house were overgrown with mold – no one had wanted to keep this house warm in years. There was also dust upon the doorsteps leading to the porch like an undisturbed lake – screaming about the stories of a bygone time with it’s misshapen steps, but welcoming like an old grandmother happy to see guests.
Creeks and moans whispered under my feet about my visit as I press on each step as I contemplated my decision with each successive move forward. As I stood on the porch I felt the wind in my hair and the dust upon my nose. I wondered for a split second if I should knock and push open the door.
I did not wonder for long though. Perhaps too long have I traveled The Road, too long have I knelt next to the streams and listened to the birds, had conversations with the crunch of the dirt beneath my feet, wondered in awe with the sky above my thoughts – now do I see upon the grounds immediately before me like I see upon the road ahead?
Long did I wonder, and long was my gaze as I stared at the door. I went ahead.
I knocked – there was, of course, no response. I pushed open the door and I swear that that door did scream like a quiet sonata as it came to screeching halt. I expected to see a family turn towards me as I opened the door, or perhaps an elderly, chair-bound man, but what I saw was much different.
Emptiness, like the great void above our heads in the night sky. Some furniture here and there, but no pictures, no landmarks. In fact, nothing to identify the previous owner.
I went into the kitchen, no grease upon the stove, no rust upon the oven, no wears left upon the counter-tops, just a snow globe in the corner of the room. The snow globe had a mountain in it that reminded me of my prior footsteps and a bygone time, but I stopped myself short didn’t think much of it.
I continued into what would have been the bedroom, but there was nothing in the room. Like the prior tenant lived, and left, without a trace.
Perhaps they left into the woods, you think? But the woods are dense, are dark at night, and are misleading during the day. They do not lend themselves to easy adventures.
It is, of course, easy to say that whoever stayed here, stayed with family. And by that, I mean, they had no family, at least not physically, but perhaps in mind. No family to stop you from wondering into the woods, no family to make you leave behind a trace – I think as I run my finger upon the mantle of the fireplace.
I thought this to be true, until I came across as dark room. The dark room had stuffs in it like it had been packed tight for a long voyage. Indeed, I had trouble navigating through the dark room because it was so packed.
A knight in armor here, a tea kettle set there. I felt unrest until I came across a photo album.
I then realized why the previous tenant had left in such a hasty manner. The photos told a sad story of love found and lost lost through consequence due to pure chance. Love abruptly ended, life lost. Even now, it is, tough to talk about.
Perhaps, that is what drew you here, you wonder. Perhaps, you needed to talk about these things. Perhaps, you’ve always needed to talk about these things. As always, it is tough to say. What you can say is that this photo album told a sad story of love and loss and the unwillingness to cope with a the reality of losing a piece of one’s self.
You walk back unto the porch and stop before you hit the screaming steps again. Before you set foot back upon the land you wonder – you wonder how long it will be until we realize our most important memories aren’t the ones we experience here and now, but the ones that transcend space and time.
I move like a phantom – sifting tools between my hands and shuffling footsteps like I’m trying to find a lost love one through a crowded plaza. A force propels us forward, unspoken, much to our chagrin, but a force nonetheless that has an appetite for resolution and arbitration. Like a needle poking through layers of comfortable blanket, this force penetrates our lives and pinpricks us right at our most aggravated point of stimulation.
It makes you think about how much you love life, which leads you to think of death.
Death – does one just casually slip into the stream of the forever? Simply to be reconstituted as another familiarity? And what of the inbetween? Or, so to speak, the road that we all walk? Does it simply get lost, like tears in the rain? Or does it simply get misconstrued?
Take, for instance, an impromptu actor on an impromptu stage, at an impromptu time. Does the actor not first say, “wait?” while he recollects his bearings and coagulates his wit? Once he is situated, does he not look back at his prior confusion in oversimplification? Like an improv actor, moving with the actors, forgetting the settings, far and many inbetween, do we move through life?
I don’t know. That’s the question.
For in life, hard work looks like hard work until hard work turns into relaxation and awe. Relaxation because we finally gave ourselves a break, awe, because we finally showed the world what we were capable of and it reciprocated – and we were ready to receive it.
But the world is palpable, relative, tangible. Like a ball of clay rolling down a long, endless hill, it continues. Once some bold, unforgiving visionary comes along and takes that clay and molds it and says this is this, this will forever be this, and that is that then the ball of clay has shifted and changed. But not too long from then, over time, long after that visionary is gone, that ball will continue rolling down that long hill, smoothing itself out and waiting for the next visionary across the endless sea of time.
And yet, do we speak to each other through the open window, across the music to one another to relay these things, like a ghost whispering to an unborn child. To the next generation? Or do we simply believe was has passed-has passed, and that is that?
No. I believe in another world. A world where one can transcend time as easily they transcends space. One that connects people from across generations as easily as one can connects dots on a map. As I look into the distance trying to answer my own question I am taken away. Not by a scene, or the view, but the music that is the ambient orchestra of our live. For a minute, it took me away to another time and place where my dreams felt like a lifetime.
The ability to transcend ourselves is a widely undervalued ability. What is the ability to transcend ourselves, but to transcend space and time? The ability to take a look at ourselves through someone else’s eyes – what would we see?
It’s seldom that we set aside time for ourselves.
We set aside time to clean the dishes, to do the laundry, to read that book about that road…but how oft do we set aside time to explore ourselves? Would we even know where to start? Where to go? What to look for? Who to look for?
If our identity can be summed up by the sum of all of our linear actions then of what use is our mind? Trees go through life experiencing a number of events, should we associate those events with their identity?
Could we associate all of the things we have done in life with our identity?
If so, what of our future? How does that come into play in the grand scheme of things? For our mind is our most valuable asset, we give close friends, but a glimpse into that of which we understand, like a carefully guarded secret. Perhaps, not a secret, but a treasure. Buried deep below the dark waters of our consciousness, only diving deep after taking a breath of uncertainty and resurfacing with only vague images of which we can only form the most general of opinions.
I pondered this as I walked down a quiet, somewhat lush road until I came across two trees planted side by side, perhaps by chance – although, isn’t everything that we experience placed into the stream for which we call ‘chance’? – at which point I stopped my weary feet and stood awhile.
I wondered how well each tree knew each other, given that they had experienced so much of life together. Experienced each linear event together, grew old together.
It made me think of those who have come and gone.
Does the very act of carrying someone with you in spirit facilitate someone growing with you? After all, they only exist in your memories – only exist in your stories. By degrees, we make ourselves available to our imagination for those who have come into our lives and left prematurely.
We set awhile in a quiet room, we say to our imagination, “Okay, I trust you, take me with you.”, and we transport ourselves to a time and a place when we are back together with our most cherished, but lost friends.
Perhaps the road ahead is not littered in provocative scenes that lead us to such wonder, but perhaps we lend purpose into those scenes to make them as such. Perhaps, you think, this purpose is the ultimate gift to our friends who have come and gone – a gift that can only be given postmortem, and one that never be translated into words that others may understand.
But others may understand the language, and relate it back to their memories, their personal sunken treasures, and thus, they will give purpose to the footsteps of their future.
Walking down the beach along the water’s edge, the water slowly rises to and sinks my feet into the sand as I step further and further down the shore. The smell of musty salt on my nose, the taste on my lips, and the white noise of water breaking over the sand in my ears makes me feel a little overwhelmed, at least by the senses – my mind is alert and vigilant. Like a tiger at a zoo trying to escape its cage the water paws at the shore – slowly, but violently, as if knowing its attempts are futile but beckoning the opportunity.
In the reflection of the water I can see the stars above.
Each like a tiny speck among a shore of endless sand, curious to how it got there and even more curious to wonder what it’s hiding. One day these stars will come raining down and raze this serene landscape, flatten the starry image I see in the reflective water into the salty air with little respect to the footsteps that have come and gone through this sand. I feel as if I were to stop trying so hard to see and start letting myself feel it, I could sense all of the footsteps that have passed through here – irrespective of time, of course.
Narrowing my eyes and focusing on the horizon I see an indiscriminate opaque jagged background. Filled with tropical trees, brush, hills, cliffs, life that care little of the happenings of the nearby land until the sun falls and liquid darkness splashes across the everything, and through it swims uncertainty incarnate.
Much like the sea shells that litter this land – offering relics of a bygone time – my thoughts pen and perform a play that no one will ever hear. Drifting into the infinity of the stars, the darkness of the ocean, the mysteries of the sand.
The whispers in the wind ending in a final exclamation point – carrying my sentences when I had no words to exhale.
Though, it is not sadness that I feel, but a brief brush with awe. To offer up so much of myself to a scene, a scene larger than myself in many regards, and in return receive a priceless memory that I will never be able to share, and even if I could, probably shouldn’t. Such is the road to awe, and such is the finishing touch to the keys to the sonata that slowly usher the musical notes of this night to a close. Sad and wonderful is the sonata, and powerful and eruptive is the audience. Furious is the the scene, but tranquil is the mood. Those coming down my old path will never know my story, but they will write their own, and thus, they will write their own road to awe.
From the lake, I walked until I came across a fork in the road. Each road appeared equal in measure and traffic – neither appeared good or bad, right or wrong. It was, for lack of a better way to put it, this or that. Each had aging green and orange trees on either side – each had light peaking through the horizon. Each appeared well-travelled and worn.
I went left.
Slowly, the other road became less and less visible through the obscurity of nature. Perhaps, in another world, at another time, I went right. I would have the same name, same back-story, same past, same deep stare, but my future would differ, by how much is hard to say.
Constants, and variables – in other words, some things would change, others would not change.
An infinite number of possibilities that we make without even consciously thinking about it. In ten years would I like the person that went right? Again, it is tough to say.
What I can do is nod in passing, at least philosophically to the one that went right, and hope that his adventures always be unexpecting, the people he encounters never boring, his legs always restless, his mind never content, and his shoes always dusty with the particles of yester-year.
Physics shall prove the ultimate barrier between myself and the one that went right, but perhaps, in a sense, everything I do not do I can cheers to him, or them, as it were, as each decision forks off another possibility among the possibility landscape.
In this sense, I shall have the one who went right always nearby, like chasing down a ghost, they will be ever present, always here – wherever here may be – but perhaps, at a different time.
Cheers to the one who went right, because he went right so I could go left.
Walking through the woods, the moon casts shadows that multiply the trees three-fold. One of those nights where clouds dim the light of the moon every so often and, upon receding, the moon casts a different picture of the woods than seen prior to the dim. Just enough sky visible through the clouds to see the stars, bright enough to beckon our imagination and far enough away to give us something to honor.
Sometimes day can seem like the present, and night can seem like the past. There’s a pond not far off in the distance – I can see it through the trees thanks to the reflection of the stars and moon off the dark water’s surface – that has a tree trunk right up on the water’s edge.
How many imaginations and thoughts has this tree trunk captured, you wonder. Sometimes, you can feel the past filter through your own thoughts like an echo through time. Tonight is one of those times, you think, as you rest upon the tree trunk and listen around you to the symphony of nature’s orchestra, performing a one-of-a-kind piece that no one will ever hear again. This tree trunk has seen many heartbreaks, romances, arguments, impromptu poems, and memories and briefly, at this moment, I realize that I simply became an actor in the scene. A walk-on role set to the backdrop of tonight’s starlit orchestra.
We are the audience, the great drama is our lives.
Broken hearts, love lost, turbulent romances, every smile behind every laugh, every tear that ever fell and even some that didn’t, moments that took our breath away just to give us a chance to stop trying to survive so that we could experience life, and every reflection we ever saw that looked like an older version of ourselves. Propelling us towards an end we can’t possibly understand, and probably shouldn’t.
You think about how many emotions this tree trunk has captured, and then you begin to wonder if the tree trunk captured your emotions or this setting asked for yours. Perhaps, you think, that is the great drama of tonight.
I walked along the road, I walked for a long time.
Along the way, wind hit me, memories hit me, emotions hit me. It’s funny, but sometimes you just keep walking after something hits you. Never minded one bit once you voiced your opinion, things just kept on happening.
It changes you, more than you know. I mean, you can’t very well be the same person forever, right? Forever is a long time.
Sometimes you look at a something trivial, like a rock, and you just stare long and hard, never did you any good you just kept on looking, formulating opinions about the rock, and then your perspective changes, suddenly you don’t see a rock you see…something else.
I’d have to say that’s what this was like, seeing something else, it changes a man.
Only if you think about it though.
Of course, given my nature, I thought long and hard.
Sometimes, when the melody of a song takes you away, makes you forget about the meaner qualities of life, you lose yourself, quit thinking about what’s coming. Perhaps that’s what all people experience, perhaps not. Who’s “everybody” anyway?
It’s okay though, I mean that I’ll be okay. I hope that we’ll all be okay, after all that’s who I really care about.
I heard this expression one time, “from here to forever”, I thought about it being pretty impressive. I then thought about my memories and how they affect that idea. It’s pretty tough to say “from here to forever”, but I suppose people keep on trying.
After some time I came to a beach of fine sand and an ocean that appeared to be set ablaze via the reflection of the sunset. The appearance of the ocean sedated and subdued my weary legs as I fell backwards somewhat involuntarily into a sitting position. I pulled my hands into view in front of my face and remarked to myself of how the lines across my hands looked like trails dragged in the sand. I breathed slowly as the scene around me devoured me.
As I let my hands fall to my sides and move through the fine sand I came across a hard object buried a few inches below the surface. I knew what it was before I pulled it out of the sand into my field of view – an old timepiece from some other era. The timepiece didn’t just look old, it looked other-worldly, alien, some mechanical utility that some mysterious being used for time keeping purposes. I tried to envision who would own such a thing, but I could see nothing. Like straining eyes trying to make a figure out in a very dark place, not sure if it was changing shapes or even there at all, the figure evaded definition.
The timepiece was, of course, no longer in working condition. Its hands were frozen in place, an hour hand pointing here, minutes and seconds pointing there, all pointing to a time come and gone. Like a ghost left behind, or stuck between worlds, refusing to leave until some long-forgotten task is fulfilled, this timepiece haunts this beach. Then a new thought enters my mind as if the timepiece is speaking directly to me with the rationale of a madman:
The time on my face has come and gone, it is both here and not here, now and then, is and is not, was and will be.
For “now” is a place and a time, but when you leave me behind and I move farther and farther into your past I will become a thing, a memory.
And when you think of that memory you will remember the feeling of the sand against your skin, the smell of the salty ocean mist, the way the light glided across the water like it was alive, the sun as it slowly exploded upon the horizon, and the feeling of something slightly heavy in your hand.
You will remember that which was forgotten, at least, temporarily.
And when you will pull me from your memory, will it be any different than from when you pulled me out of the sand?
Time will have multiplied the effects of your memory and you will crave experiencing it again exactly as it is occurring now more than physically coming to this place again.
Madness. Then again, what is madness if not peering into the heart of the incomprehensible? Perhaps I do not understand, perhaps some things were not meant to be understood. Perhaps to understand everything exactly as it is, the true nature of space, time, the universe, and us is to uncover madness.
I placed the timepiece back onto the sand, no need to bury it. Time would take care of that for me.
I laid down and slept briefly and during that sleep I dreamed I walked into the ocean to its deepest depths where everything moved slowly, where time moved slowly.
“Were there a thousand dreams to dream, and a thousand dreams of dreams. Where would the poet lie? And where would the dreamer cease to think? Forever and a day we live wish to live, in a world so different as this. Though who among us can say that we have fully given our heart and fist? Our heart and fist to change the world, or at least to lift the mist. The mist that covers our eyes, so thick, it glistens prisms of light sources unseen through the thicket of drifts. But here I say to you, or rather I speak quick in hisses: What difference is it if you were to see the sources of light unseen that are covered by mists if all that you truly wish know is what the prism splits upon your own instance?”
Thus spoke the wind to me.
Spoken in alliteration, nested in reason, carried through the air like a choir of whispers accompanied by a dance of earthly matter. I wear the wind’s words like a light shirt, and my mind tries to find the meaning of its poetic verses. Like a supreme, other-worldly being handing me an encyclopedia of its people’s life, history, arts and sciences I can only comprehend a portion of it. The rest are filled with mysteries I have yet to solve. Like a puzzle, slowly piecing together, perhaps I will find the rest of the pieces as I move forward in time.