INTANGIBILITY: SELF LOVE
The heart is a gate.
Interiority disperses us, makes us thin and nothing like threads of wind. We expand into a vastness, across a landscape enveloped in night. We become a silhouette, no longer a solid thing to be held, but to remain always unknowable. Inner worlds metabolize lived experience, mysteries become like sunlight, illuminating what the heart wants most: to be found, to be held, to be loved. But we remain at our deepest existence, fundamentally intangible.
We embody a ghost, and we desire to know and touch it. It's the shape of ourselves, what we dream of, what we wonder about and wish to fully see. But the thing we embody is separated from physical reality, the way we experience other people, objects, and things. Like peering into another person's eyes, feeling their hands in ours, holding one another. We can't meet ourselves the way we meet the world, the vessel that experiences things can't itself be fully experienced.
Then the inner world becomes romance. It seeks what will always be elusive. It endures to give form to paradox, that nothingness can be experienced. That something that can't be touched can be held. Our body and life must become atmosphere for what they contain. Landscapes of mythology, illegible translations of the vicious expanse: dreams and death. Where we see our ghost, the outline of someone that exists despite the outer world.
To be seen is to be held, to be seen is to be loved. Inner sight is vision of the heart. Interiority is opened here, through a gate of death. It enters inward to the void of spirit, inhabited by intuitions of ourselves. It finds what remains of us in the expansive night of our dreams. There we feel the pull to be made meaningful, for the ghost to be given shape. The heart calls for us, an invocation of presence, to summon forth our desires. It calls for our silhouette to be filled, to embody the mysteries we see the shape of, to manifest the intangible self as we most deeply seek to be: to be seen.
GATES OF FORTUNE
Fate is a passage through a series of gates, of hidden structures. Life meets us through these partial openings, things unfold in thresholds. In these small mysteries, truth and meaning are encountered, to give shape to what fate obscures.
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Alight on the plain of a shaded place,
To be seen is to be loved.
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Suit of intentions and emanations,
Aura worn in a gust that would rend the air.
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Burning outlines of memories passing,
The heart holds the shape of things.
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Sunrise, ascending fires,
Spirit emerge: what wants to be inevitable?
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Warm light through aged windows,
Home is what holds the moment.
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Tides of grass shivering in wind,
My shape laying, dissolves to the ground.
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Wherever along the path I need,
Spirit I hold, make shape of me.
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Open expanse, earth unveiling,
Spirit heal: what wants to be soothed?
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Warm air around the shape of a home,
Sunlight draped on a thread of wind.
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Time abide, life become me,
Air in the meadow I'm to find.
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Dreams touched but only waded,
You still arrive, a luminous wind.
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Sky unbound, airs cascading,
Spirit disperse: what wants to be let go of?
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Loose with things floating like gossamer,
Among all the dreams of crickets and moths.
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Your heart illuminates the passing night,
A romance of dark oceans more vast than sunlight.
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Eyes to hold moonlight, casting dreams at night,
Enveloped, in the hollow of nocturnes.
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Oceans, secluded deep of night,
Spirit submerge: what wants to be known?