Most of what makes the most sense in my mind I tend to forget. Yet I live and continue to breathe. And I can never seem to remember what I realized that was so important. But the leaves keep falling, the snow storming, the flowers blooming, and the breeze reprieving from the sun glaring. Still, I can never remember what made sense of things that one time in my mind. And life ends. But I still didn’t seem to remember. What was that thing most important of all. And if it was so important, why couldn’t I ever remember it again?

He sat silently. To the unknowing observer he seemed deep in thought, brooding but calm. The reality was of course much different. There is a reason cliches find themselves so worn-- appearances and their deceptions.

He sat silently but was loudly restive underneath. It was as if a different sort of blood was flowing through his veins. This sanguine humor no longer bestowed control of his limbs to the spirit. It was as if a reaction was evoked from him without his consent. His mind did but everything to reassure his body, like a rider trying to control the horse underneath him flailing wildly from some invisible provocation.

Most of all he wanted it to end, at least at first. He wished to reconcile the disparity between his mind and body. Though attempts at taming the spontaneous unnervings of his body, returning to the calm coolness of his mind, were largely ineffective. The mind itself only grew desperate with anxiety as its attempts to gain control exposed how impotent it really was.

Yet this was as essential as anything else. He needed to understand his place, needed his pride curtailed. He had to understand this gap between the two aspects of his being were opposing each other because he had lost his ability to maintain a unity; had taken for granted his birthright and unknowingly relinquished its possession.

So there he sat, silently and restively; enduring what came on suddenly and unpleasantly as he rode on the back of this terrified mare. He had to reconcile himself to realize this animal could not be reasoned with, could not always be tamed. To sit down on her back is to accept the reality of our frailty at the whims of the world.

And in his mind, as it grew weary of pulling upon the reigns which had no effect, he began to grow curious more with that which set the horse into such an uproar. What was invisible to me I wish now to see! Humbled at last and ready to open his eyes, he set out to translate into the mind’s language the utterings of the body. Of his body.

“What do you see?” “I see what you see. I see the tree over there and its green leaves and brown bark.” “Then do you see the way it sways itself into years I can barely remember beyond the sensation of a similar breeze, which smells like childhood?”

But she didn’t. She hadn’t thought much about childhood since it passed, aside from sudden jolts of memory that she was always too busy to entertain or too quick to suppress. It was then, for barely a moment, that she silenced the audience, the never ending sounds and all the unnecessary glares into one perfectly focused spotlight. And she saw the swaying leaves. She saw the chipping bark. In that moment she saw only the tree, and the breeze, and the moment passing in unison with her heart beating. Then a little too fast, a little too slow, until it was just right. And at that very moment that all was how it should be, the lights began to glare and the audience resumed their conversations. From a vague exasperation of being thrown back into the cacophony, of which now she was more acutely aware of than before, she felt a densely formed mass suddenly begin to weigh heavy in her chest. The sensation of sinking pervaded her body.

How could he know that she was in the ravages of life itself, in a form as concentrated as could be. Could he guess that she was being questioned just now in a manner very few could appreciate as much as him? That her moment of concentration, of a symphony that from some combination of coincidence and intent, individual manifestations of unwavering purpose that would be essentially bare and worthless if not conjoined to the cohesion and grace of fortune, came together, to offer her the opportunity into a world, though consciously unknown to her at the moment, she had searched for since those days of childhood ended. And that he knew this because, though he was the furthest from perfection’s expression, he kept steady and unwavering to the path that moments as those exposed. Though he could never frame it into a clear shape, he knew what shape it was not. And he did not remain loyal to what it wasn’t.

It was exactly during this moment that she was standing upon the precipice. She was being asked if she wanted to remember the feeling of cresting this highest mountain and, upon looking at the expanse below, if she could relish, savor, the view and the sounds and everything else that belonged as much to that moment as life itself belonged to her, whilst knowing intuitively that there was a desire nestled unconscionably deep that demanded her to descend to the very bottom, deeper down even than before, so that, once more, she would have not merely another height to ascend, but one that had grown even taller from the depth of the base to which she desired descend! To love the fleeting moment, the gentle breeze, the sun that invigorates (now, and burns later). Can she love what is now, she asks herself without knowing it, being intuitively aware that in her heart the seeds of destruction had already begun to germinate.

I’d rip to shreds all her misconceptions, if she let me

If she wanted me to

But if she didn’t

Then I’d let her paint the walls with her own hue

Not many love the reconstruction most

Like I do

A simple story. I wanted to tell a simple story. Not one of those too contrived to understand, to relate to. Most people don’t have interesting enough lives to relate to such elaborate imagery.

I’d say the typical person might know what it’s like to go to a coffee shop. To get there, find yourself on a line knowing what you’re going to get but looking at the menu anyway. Getting impatient with everyone at the register for ordering too many things, and for just taking too long. Even though you’re not in a rush you find reasons to be upset and unsatisfied. What if you were stuck in this cafe for all eternity. Would that be an appropriate hell?

Though I’m currently unaware, the manner of my moods unraveling as I’m ordering my coffee at this cafe is a condensed reflection of their eventual fluctuation throughout my day. Uncomfortable says it best. The intoxication of the atmosphere awakens in me a unique perception of my surroundings, for an evaporating moment all around had grown too silly and made me realize the reason for my out of placeness.

I was in this room with my fellow people. Men, women, children, all sorts and types, and yet none of us, save the cashier (who had a drone like consistency even with the generic highs and lows of intonation that were imbued into her shpiel), had made even the slightest effort to communicate with one another. Rather, everyone was lost in a daze-like consistency with their eyes reflecting an unreceptive glaze, consumed in a world of imaginary ideals that were floating too far above the world they were assumed to represent (did gravity even any longer constrain them?). It was the closest to, not death, but the lack of connection to reality that surprised me. And with crude shame I had to admit myself as no different; only for this fleeting moment did I engage in such a vivid canvass of my surroundings, while if any one elses glance connected with mine I would have instantly broken away and tried to protect myself in reverie.

Yet why does it continually bother me? Knowing all too well by now how it will be this way, and then another way with its own deficiencies and problems, and another and another after that. So why do I care? Why does this keep coming to the forefront of my consciousness, even though I would be the first person to try and avoid any of this mutual interest, curiosity, I see so lacking in front of me. "We are all such beings that grapple every day anew with the force of life weighing heavy and heavier upon us!" That is what every single soul in that room wishes to yell, with their own expressions to be sure, for if they wanted they could easily muster such a cry with wholehearted passion. Yet instead they pretend they are each the last person to do so. The last to be any different from the rest. "Do not look at me," Instead they try to say with their bodies and expressions.

Just then I hear my name called. My coffee is ready. I walk over and grab it. Delight stirs throughout me. I walk away and back to my car, sipping on an invigoration that slowly perfuses me. What was I thinking about again? As I walk past the glassy exterior of the store next door I find my face reflected and lose myself to self appraisals. Then I notice a nice car drive by.

Real understanding manifests as gratitude. It says, "I am the other half of all you love." "I am all you love." Then darkness and a crippling pain spreads from your heart through all your limbs. Exasperation pumped through every artery and vein. Your perception becomes piercing, you are gifted a glance of introspection. There is no longer what once seemed inevitable, but now an appreciation for that on display as undeniable.

One free man, a man previously held his whole life in bondage, utters such a statement, “I have spent my life in the trenches where I was born. I have worn my entire life shackles, and perhaps will continue to wear them until nature frees me from their grasp. But know this! Though I was born into such an existence, my children will not be. I will satisfy these chains, but I will not pass them on. For though no one could free me from mine, I will free them from theirs”. And these words he uttered, having full trust in his intentions.

Well then, many years later a strange circumstance unraveled. This man, the one who uttered all those interesting sentiments, he sat there one day in his home. This home was, for a slave previously all his life (and still he wore his shackles), a significant accomplishment. And in his home he sat and thought about his speech from so many years ago. And he decided, on a whim, to see if after all this time he had achieved his goal, or was at least on the same path as he had previously intended.

He thought to his children who had no shackles, and to the rest of the community and people, who too, were for the most part without shackles. For in his mind he had practically accomplished all he set out to. But one thought kept destroying the satisfaction he was so close to culminating.

Now this thought that would not relent had to do with something his son had uttered to him. He said something to the tune of, “Though you say we have no chains, you were born with them. And even now you continue to wear them. For all you learned about life was how to exist in chains. So why do you not see that in return you have created a big chain around the world. The world shackled you, and even though you cannot see it, now you reciprocate the favor”. And after he remembered his son saying this, thoughts and images began to uncontrollably erupt in his mind.

He thought about all those he knew and how they spent their lives. He saw that all of them worked. Not like he had to, beckoning to every whim from his master, rearranging his life for his master, suffering through such labor for the meager means to survive, embracing scoundrel virtues and debasing his values for his master, for his livelihood. No. No. NO! The people he knew were without shackles! So their lives must be better than was his. As a slave’s was!

Then, all of a sudden, with every current realization wiped clean from his mind, he began to think deeply again about his son. Without intent of his own, the images were unleashed. He saw his son standing on the ground, surrounded by endless crowds of people. All of them were dirty, somehow despicable. But his son was not. And in the midst of all these people, their banter, their smiles, their voices, their interactions and overall interconnection was almost like an invisible chain of sorts had them bound together. But not his son, no. His son instead was silent, he looked around but could not find anything at which to gaze. Then, he turned his head to the sky, that endless ocean above, and began to levitate upwards. This instilled an instant panic in the father and so he ran instinctively to save his son. But as he ran towards him, and his son continued levitating higher and higher, he realized he would be beyond his grasp to reach. And so as he got to him, he became aware that he was still wearing his shackles. Without a moment of hesitation he ripped from his feet these chains and abruptly aimed them at his son. With a throw of utmost precision he managed to catch him with the shackles, and with their heavy weight was able to return him back to the ground.

And so there they stood, these silly fools, with hopes and dreams of everything the opposite of what they are. But in reality they are all slaves. And their slavery is not the kind that needs shackles to remind. For they will willingly chain themselves, these slaves. Stray too far and instinctively they will beg to be shackled to their fellow man, to their fellow ideals, to their fellow master. What a joke is man.

An immovable object. And the unstoppable force. How their clash is inevitable. Sometimes I think the best among us, in their self destructive ways, do not realize the inevitability of the roads they choose. Always thinking that they picked so freely and uniquely the road they travel. Not seeing from afar that there is no ultimate road that does not eventually lead them along the path they were destined.

I wish then to tell you this: you destroy because it is your path, and everyone’s path, to find the object they at last cannot destroy. To this your responses are many. You say so many among you are mere body parts, when they can potentially be such fantastic wholes. But No! You misunderstand. That body part is exactly what they could not move. No matter the strength and endurance they mustered, at last they found an object which was indeed immovable. Some are born too beautiful. They miss the sunset because the ocean momentarily bears their reflection, too radiant too look away. The too knowledgeable cannot support such a heavy brain, with limbs left frail from disuse. They think these are gifts. And others hold them in esteem for such serendipitous innate advantages. But they are not. They can shackle a man as much as elevate him.

I also believe there are several manners in which man approaches such an object. For when a man is cultivated, not in the real sense but in the shallow sense of his individual time, he holds onto the rather pathetic belief that if he does not push upon this new object with all his might, well then he never really tried and so even if he cannot push it with whatever force he just displayed, it was not really his mightiest and so, if he wanted, he could probably push it, at another time, at his behest. Other pathetic men would find some advantage to be made from portraying the illusion that they pushed this object. Knowing full well before they even began there was no possibility of pushing such an object. But of course after their fantastic (although knowingly false) display in which they were made for everyone to seem strong beyond fathom, they began themselves to nurture the possibility that if they wanted to, though they have no desire to really try, they could move this object. And even others beyond that, they would spend their whole lives following men and institutions that claimed to know how to move such an object. And in their distant histories perhaps these institutions and lineages of men had records of such unique moments when previously, and relative to their time, such objects of unmovable myth were somehow moved. Hoping and striving in life to achieve the proper rank at which point they too which have the ability to move this object. Though the rank which they attain is always one below the one at which that ability is realized, they hold fervent in their hearts the conviction that if only they attained the proper post, they too would be able to move this object.

So what then is an honest man to do. What does he do? Well perhaps at one point or another as he saunters upon the roads that are his destiny, he comes upon such an object. From which, might I add, he may easily have walked away. That is another option which I have forgotten to mention. Many men indeed do not even have eyes for such objects. But as I suggested before in regards to shackles, even eyes for a great many things may ironically make an individual more narrow in what he can see. So there he is, standing before this object. And an undeniable urge to test himself against this object erupts. He pushes against it with all his might. Feeling with every increase of his own effort that the object increases its force as well. He does not allow the lack of movement to discourage him, for it was never the object he was interested in moving. Instead he wished for the object to push against him, but knowing that it was not an object which could on its own push, he had to lead it. And this man, being a whole and not a single body part, exhausted each and every body part, until he lay there in a state of rather agonizing defeat. Since he had devoted himself in every facet he was capable, he had no capacity left to do anything at all. And as the sun began to beat down on him, he realized he was unable to move and that perhaps soon he would melt away into the earth. Quite exhausted he lay there slowly drifting into a warm slumber until at once a passerby approached him. This individual inquired as to the man’s fortune and upon learning of his struggles with the immovable object, the individual spoke thus, “Ah so it seems you were unable to move this object. And after all your unsuccessful efforts to move it, you are now unable to move yourself. But now here I appear, an individual like yourself, who cannot move this object but fortunately enough, can move you!”. And after such a strange little speech this individual picks up the exhausted and overheated man and carries him to the nearby town for refreshments and rest.

There are two types of art. Truly. That art which you can understand. Which can fit in your palm and be grasped tightly. There is then the type which you would not even attempt to wrap your fingers around. For though you understand not this art at least you understand that it is not meant to be considered in the light of any sort of cage. The richness of this world cannot yet properly be illuminated, for its depths are still beyond the reach of your radiance. Though in the anguish of your misunderstanding you strangely find a sort of balance begin unravel as a surge of primal intuition erupts: what you see at its core is you. You see what dwells underneath it all. And though no one understands. No one appreciates. They misinterpret for what such a creation is meant. It is meant to evoke whatever you can see. What you can feel. What you can touch and hear. Made only more brilliant by the life it breathes into your imagination. Because it, above all else, signifies the commitment of its creator to life: with zeal in pursuit of its highest highs and in equal earnest of its lowest lows. Whatever of art you cannot understand, it only means to reassure you of the way. It says in simplest form, “Trust that beyond words and understanding, but as undeniable as the heart that beats in your chest.”

Memories flash before me. The deep waters. This terrifying man bathed in black chasing me. And now a pillow begins to appear between my arms. The spot of drool becomes more and more distinct. I wake up the same, but I do feel slightly different. Strangely enough I notice myself turned upside down: my feet awakening where my head drifted into slumber the night before.

Without indulging a whim or thought otherwise I found myself almost instantly at the dining table, ready to eat the breakfast that I somehow prepared? But before I could unravel such a thought I realized I was already at school. Now I was home. My work was done too. All of a sudden day turned to night. And before I could take notice I was tucked into bed.

I woke up the next morning to those deep waters and that terrifying man. What, I wondered, do they mean. And what, I wondered as I laid back down slowly, does it all mean...