Can we talk?

I've visited the water's edge many times, and your corpse, in the place where you drowned me, never seems to answer me when I speak. I'd like to talk... I have a lot I've been meaning to say, a lot that's been on my mind, especially recently. I don't know if you can hear me now, but I'm going to just say it and hope that you can hear (or perhaps that you will eventually read these words through a glowing window somewhere).

You were always better at fishing than I was. You were always better at hopping across the streams and crevices of the earth, at balancing across fallen logs, at climbing up the rough trees. You were always better at all the games we played as children; at all of the activities we engaged in as adults. Playing often at the side of the stream, amongst the roots of trees which lapped at its flows in silence, my child eyes would often stop to admire the skill with which you performed every feat, the grace in which you took every step.

You were always better at hopping across the rocks that formed natural pathways across the creek, while I frequently stumbled, slipped, and became drenched in cold tears, time and time again. Sometimes, I think, I would get jealous, and purposefully take one of my clumsy leaps onto the rock you yourself stood on. I used to think it was because I wanted to get close to you, to touch you, to feel like I was good enough to stand beside you. But, looking back, I think deep down I may have wanted to knock you down. I think maybe I wanted to make you understand the chill of being drenched in that river of feelings, so that, if I could not share space on those stepping stones with you, I could at least share with you my experience of the creek.

Maybe I desired both things simultaneously--the human heart is brimming, overflowing with contradictions and emotions. Maybe, my desire to be close to you upon the heights, and my desire to bring you down into the water with me, come from the same source, trickling down down from the mountain of my cranium and into the actions of my body. The sense of longing I felt in those days flowed like that creek bed often would when inundated by storming rain--rushing, pouring out of its usual boundaries--a rising, fluid entity, carving furiously into the land; fervently, carefully, caressing a deep wound into the supple body of Gaia. In the chaos of those rapid streams, I could see my desires spill over, meeting the watersheds of her form, dividing into separate paths and joining again, slithering serpents to cut their own crimson lines across her skin towards the ocean of longing.

Eventually, and I suppose justifiably, you began to react differently to me. There came a day that, when I attempted to jump upon the stone on which you stood, I met your extended arm, and was pushed away into the water before my feet had again met the earth. I think it was that day that I began to resent you. I think that was the day I understood: that you and I could never stand together on the same rock; that there would always be a space between us; that you would always be ahead, reaching the other side of the stream, before I ever could. That you would remain dry, warm, triumphant, while my tear ducts became tributaries to the stream's current.

(I am still there: cold, wet, blue, crying eyes staring into the deep)


I HAVE CHAINED HE WHO WITHHOLDS THE COMING OF THE MESSIAH'S SHADOW