I wrote this last entry two thousand years ago with my arm resting on my thigh, in a night that bore crystals hanging from its open ceiling, so clear. And all I could think about was this muted, transpiring  being. In its midst I lay disarmed and motionless, swept away by the rustling of leaves, broken by the bend of blades of grass, chased by every hum of trashing wings. August came and I married the wind. But still I lay bare. And as September approached I was weak to turn around and seek the same embrace. I had heard the whispers speak of delivering myself to the pure reach of being. And the sea rose and fell , and with it the bells reverberations, witnesses to the tiny marks I left behind. Footsteps. Minor blends of thoughts and feelings, immature gestures of heels dug deep into the sandy pits of being human. Of being. This sort of love or life , or arras of colors now pulsated in my core, and I flew hard like a fist thumping through layers of clouds, chasing away thunder and lightning , burning the outer crust, screaming and hammering aches against invisible foes,  depriving trees of roots, stripping  away branches and bark, ripping past wild threads of pain to collide with the crystal chandelier and explode. Yes, explode.

A little noise of wisdom, a mere grin in the distance, that slight nod as our eyes align. I lean on some sort of silence and some sort of sticky guidance, trickling down my spine, shaking me violently, or then, wavering and subtle. All openings grow within, though not at my biding. Many life folds tag me, touch me, tremble deep inside of me. I howl and seek nature

, seek the city, solitude and distance, overflow of impression and offers, people, noise. I think now of that meadow in the maze of skyscrapers, popping blossoms bursting forth from the earthly bosom. The stark contrast attracts me. If I don’t find it, I fear emptiness and death. Is running away from stopping a longing to know I am still alive? What am I not meeting?

This holiday, every repeating year. I take to the lights. And in the light the rain comes down hard. I wished for days of rain. My sky holds the clouds , the voices of rain burst open, soon to be dismissed by other reigns breaking through to touch my skin. I am ready to retire as the clouds wither, and with them the tame notion of time, which I so perfectly conditioned to step in each footprint of mine. A companion – time, barely, or rather smug – no, I feel the pull of the tender, the frail, and I wander and admire the crawl of my dissolving cloud, running down the breadth of my arm, a mere trickle seeping in and out of me. Who am I?

I tug at the sweet crease drawing the outline of my heart, disintegrating each beat in muted devotion for a single moment. A crack in time is a strange emperor. I lay at its feet, dust settling on every heel of existence. Only the chronology of events remains unshaken. I feel the rupture. I say tear and speak not of rain or eye – by some odd choice , I willingly accept. Loud, I think, when in truth so hushed and unuttered all lays bare. Or I, and cloud.

To waft on a cripple is a sentiment of the human wrinkle. I ram my totality into the sky. Union is no false promise as the heart beats on. Retiring removes some seeking , revealing a vacancy I only supposed empty, when calm was always, always present. Placid. Or, what other tranquil breath? Freedom, the relaxed kingdom infuses me , and hands me over – I am still guessing the word of the year. Only I am the word, and the cloud and the rain, and the sky holding both against the backdrop of every admirable fiber of life. Now skin and membrane, electrostatic discharge pushing through heel and ankle, oozing life, unloading dimension after dimension in no particular direction. Totality is my closest embrace.

I see the swan and the man with his white beard. The sea lies still. I turn to watch the full moon anew. Something is shifting and it’s not the swan nor the man. I am not breathing in this world. Boxed in a room

, men constantly move furniture as I’m drawn to the window. Their muttering is endless and I’d rather set my gaze on the swan. Something is incessantly twisting, and the wring in my hand parts for thin air. I cannot hold on to the abundance of unrest and illusion. But the parting clouds…oh, the parting clouds, and the man’s white beard hold me close. The window: I caress it’s simple frame carved out of the same wall enclosing the world. You too may think of the swan and the man, and you too may feel them just as your breath gains or looses dimension. I want nothing more than to feel the floorboard pressing against my naked feet as I lean over the proven sill and welcome truth.

I know something is coming. Something I cannot touch, something I cannot name, and finally, something I cannot evade. I retire my own name along with everything I think , makes me into who I am. I slowly peel away my identity, one facet at a time. The knowing warns me to leave behind my cataloged self, to step out from under the attributes I collected at length, and stuck to my mortal frame. Exposed flesh , and the tick of my heart, the slate not cleared, but placed at a distance to see and observe without engaging. When the previous establishment is removed, I commit that, which then appears to you. Now that knowing I cannot grasp , has grasped me and will not subside. Somewhere within I form the word „yes“, and lean back, falling, falling, surrendering absolutely. Then, a blindfolded man in uncharted waters, led on by no one and nothing, not vision nor sound, in all familiar ways completely lost , and still…regardless still, so very still, not by voice and certainly not by the rumbling soul – deeper, still.

Flushed by the appendix of this cherished life, emerald green is my color. Just my color  for tonight. I cling to it affectionately, but not in desperation, for I am a romantic. Tender is my touch as I orchestrate my every being to receive the iridescent light. An outbreak upon impact as the radiant complexion paints every part of me. I am the emerald in hue and passion, green my tongue, pressed against my teeth, green the hair stranded sparingly across my brow, and rushing through my veins

, green blood in haste to meet the pump and hurry the spread – summon the romantic, let him free to reveal the gems glistening in all corners of the world.

Straight-up, and never look down. I absentmindedly caress my crown; jewels are lost on me. I ponder more earnestly on the shape of my head. Easy in the absence of time, surely it has retired to bed. So, with time out of the way and my royal circlet slightly askew, I dwell on matters only my heart warrants safekeeping.

My heart speaks a truth, my tongue never will. Through the tiny keyhole I manage to scrape away a fragment of truth.  My fingers gently unfold the crease of integrity , and some part of me reads the dedication to life’s most simple revelation. Easily overlooked, the plain – like child’s play and two wooden sticks , now sword and lance. I cradle the sweet, sweet nectar, infusing all of me with vigor and might , slipping pouches of golden dust, sprinkled across my crown. I bathe my soul in the soothing hum, and hear the song, and sing the hymn, and sink into the chorus‘ chant. Drums beating and chimes in chambers rolling swift. I draw a blank in every attempt to form words with lips and hands. I cannot say – you will understand – we only share this truth in silent love.

How could we not meet again in this space? Time. If for a snippet of your essence I stop to look around, all fades. In your presence

, or under your shade, I have grown. Now the shadows flicker across the barren walls, a canvas, and the projection of life. In your light truly just a flicker.

In my hurried existence I neglected to nestle against you, to curl up underneath your wings, to close my eyes and trust your guiding hand. See, this grown man is but a cover for the golden band that holds the beating heart of a little child. Long have I sheltered the curious belief that you are haunting me, chasing the life out of me, like a brush steadily erasing the lines we use to track the footprints you leave between night and day. I yearned to get away from you, to harbor my life in a space that you could not touch with your solemn affair; to no avail.

With age I am none the wiser. You left traces upon my skin. Relics of the past, ancient specks infused with life. Oh time, what I don’t know today, I made up manifold by sailing across the spinning world of love’s free spirit. I sank my finger into the damp sand, watched the entrancing circle spread lightly in all direction, just as a wave gingerly stretched over the beach to envelope my ankles. The limitation I felt you imposed upon me had lifted, or rather shifted, shifted in my mind. At the core you and I share the same beautiful nothingness. If left untouched here lies the ornate peak on which we stand. I have come to dance once and for all in the space that has no beginning and no end.  At last, you and I are not separate, not friend, nor foe, solely the tremble in close affiliation, like two strangers bound by the same heart, an everlasting glow in the boundless. Flicker on, quiver still, simmer in vastness – peace.

Candle burn my stick, my wick, my little grain swaying in the dark. Hush light, a flicker across my existence. I ceaselessly let my lips form tides of joy at your tangled play of light and shade. Now a knight as the old year whips days past against my low brow. Only time. So fretful , and still, but still, abrupt and itchy. Love dressed gleefully. I see tree stand , knight sink, candle retire, cold breath, breath. Just halt and hold, desist your immature drive and strive, mark only this step, a frame suspended in my core, heart once more, same flicker now wild and free. I sit in peace as all else turns.

Dreierlei von der Minze, zweierlei von der Liebe. Schade sie nur konzeptuell zu erfassen, die Minze. Sie vollends zu schmecken, den ihren Reichtum in sich aufzunehmen, hinter der Liebe im eigenen Sein zu verblassen. Eine Nuance vom Federkiel bis zu deren Spule, vom Atlas bis zur Axis. Die Minze halte ich auf vorgehaltener Hand, reibe sachte ein Blatt zwischen Zeigefinger und Daumen, und erwecke weitere Sinne. „Ein Blatt“, ertappe ich meinen Gedanken, und sehe es wachsen, vom Samen bis zum Blatt. Folge dem Lauf über Stiel zu Wurzel, Verzweigung folgt auf Verzweigung, sammelt sich in Erde, klammert sich an feinen Stein, findet Nährboden, weitet sich aus. Gräser von demselben Naturgesetz geleitet, Bäume auch. Spricht hier die Minze mit der Apfelsaat, nicht meine Sprache, wohl auch, wenn Sprache vom Herzen rührt, nicht vom Kopf. Zieht den Kern, weiss ihn wohl, hütet ihn, hilft ihm gedeihen. Sodann die Frucht im Sonnenstrahl erwärmt, Minze nun Säuglingsschwester, ein Schauer erweckt mich, mein Herzen lacht – dieselbe universelle Rede, dem Broca-Areal weit entlegen. Der Witz ist die Sprache zu verkennen, die Minze und Liebe vereint, die Minze Liebe ist. Ein Schmaus dann Tee und Saat

, Blatt und Frucht, heimisch unter Sonnen’s Glanz oder Wolkenmeer; beide gleich. Es bleibt nur jenem gewahr zu werden, was schon immer war.