Eyes Long Lost

Freewrite 03 – January 19, 2009

Step before my eyes. I cannot turn my head in any direction because I do not know what I will find. But I trust your voice, so you may step before my eyes and we shall make contact. The air in front of me is thick but I see through it. The air behind me is thin like a cloak that cannot resist strong winter winds, one that will not protect in danger, one that will not hide the one who wears it. A feeble cloak, almost as insignificant as one single moment separated and removed from time. You may think that to remove a moment is to change the course of history, or to break time, or to wrinkle it, but this is not so. Small motions have small reactions just as large motions cause trees to fall, rocks to tumble, eyes to tear, relationships to break. Your eyesight may need to be readjusted so that you can see what is small and what is large like I can see it. How many of you are there? I can sense only one but you never know for sure. Step into my vision so that I may see. I hope I can still distinguish you from yourselves, I may have lost practice. The air to the left of me is blowing toward me, a whistle reaching deep into my ear and sending vibrations throughout my body. The air is cold and the vibrations are difficult to bear at times, but we all have burdens. The air on the right is peaceful. It swirls in small tornados, predictable tornados that capture leaves and dust as they feebly grope for attention. They have never caused trouble and they keep themselves at bay. The air has been this way as far as I remember it. It has never mixed, has never intertwined, and has made no changes to its changes. Circular patterns like horses in chipped paint going around to the sound of agony masked by cheerfully high-pitched notes. The children laugh and squeal and the parents pretend not to enjoy themselves but fool no one. The air is my friend and I depend on it to sustain my life, for without it I could not exist. I remain in this shelter, this growth of trees like bars on a jail, blocking the sunlight from tearing through the holes in my skin. On kind days I ask for sunlight but it never comes, and so kind days turn to doubtful days that turns to miserable weeks. I grow here. I have roots that dig deeper and deeper into this soil, attempting to find nutrients so that I may grow more outward toward the heavens and inward toward the center of the earth. When the rains fall I drink like a desperately deserted man, and when they do not fall I try to think about the sunlight. Please come closer, I cannot see you if you do not stand in my line of vision. One at a time, for it is narrow and the patterns of your body and your life seeping and flowing into my senses will overwhelm me. But you do not come, and I fear you have already left. I fear you have not heard my words, and I regret my dishonesty. I should have pleaded for your help rather than pretending I did not need it. Oh sunlight, please come in millions of sharp daggers, cut away at the roof over my head and cut away at me. Grow me quickly and end me thoroughly and painlessly as only you can. Do with my remains whatever you like, they are yours for the taking. I have not been mine in years and cannot begin to claim myself now. A quickness. I need a quickness, to take in only half a breath. I must lose the chance to ever breathe a full breathe. There is air here only for a half. I dare not breathe uncharted air. I dare not.