#ephemerenet

you are waiting in between-

ans Meer

to the sea.

i learned how to speak seven languages by the time i was young. they were not what i thought they should be.

in each one, the word for world had no other meaning.

der Welt, mein Herz is a terrible terrible place.

is this why we flee? на море to the ocean, to the sea?

when i said language, i did not mean русская or deutsch or română; i meant a different sort of words.

how to show fear and regret and to speak angrily, with no remorse.

crying long hours, how you say, like the rainstorm.

there is no native language for grief because we are all fluent speakers.

there is a grammar for happiness that must be learned.

when i was smaller then, not of body but mind, i asked how you knew it was really the sea.

how it was not simply the red overwhelming everything else you saw.

i do not think i was really asking about the sea.

even know i do not know if the sea is what i mean when i say it is what we are all seeking.

weltzsmurch we are all world weary.

perhaps the sea is red because everything else is blue.

and the question still remains- if i say happiness in one language will you understand the meaning in another?

please understand i mean no harm.

für mein love, my love, my love, the sea my love, my dragoste my love, to see my love my love my love, is red.

in a place between words we cannot communicate and somehow we are all waiting in between.

спасибо, there is a way to reach the ocean from here.

is there an ocean everywhere around us.

in my mind the sea is red and my mind the sea.

a language of neutral patterns, waves, timing and frequency.

i cannot seem to rid myself of the sea and the sea cannot rid myself of me.

from speaking in a manner of many words i have only learned this:

the word for world is weary of being used in such a small manner.

and we have yet to set out on our own infinite sea, the red one we wade through.

of cut down trees and men. in every language the word for hatred is spelled like knife in back, in throat, in heart you do not have.

hatred is the killing of something not your own.

a small body rests am Meer too tired to know the consequence.

we are the word for emptiness and conscience.

we the only word that matters.

thudding on rocks, thigh(s)craping down the sides of trees. I am holding a hand the size

of a fat raspberry, and it belongs to a boy who needs me

but I am full of h o l e s a n d

I can’t keep him warm full full full full FULL of so, just so many holes. I think if I died, I’d still be tired.

Bone tired.

dry-heaving,

can’t feel from your elbows down tired.

it’s like looking at the sun when I hold him; staring at proof of your worst fear, but loving it so much that it splinters bone.

here is birth, life. grown inside me, and one day I am going to die.

give me purpose

—

when the ground splits and swallows me whole

what was this body supposed to have done?

—

the stars rocketing towards me

was i not supposed to believe their paintings?

—

was i supposed to step foot on all this land before what’s underneath it rises?

—

i hear your sun will fold and fold like burning origami in the middle of what once was blue

—

still my questions go unanswered

give me purpose!

give me direction!

—

i am not ready to hear your horn blow

not ready to see everything collapse just yet

—

tell me what i need to know

what is the purpose of this soul?

the surge deep inside your chest, the soft but sure sound of waves crashing in the distance, riding towards you. at first it’s too far for you to grasp, to see, but as it happens, as the scenes unfold, you feel it shudder and rise to its feet inside you, and the softness turns into a steady hum.

the hum doesn’t last for long, and this is what happens next:

when the choreography and the words soar, so do the waves inside you. the hum zooms into focus, and it becomes a crash – the warmest, most uplifting kind, the kind that gives you wings. you can’t capture the instant it happens, because it’s too quick and elusive, but the warmth stays with you the rest of your life. it finds a home inside of you, and it becomes a kind of strength.

after the tides subside, it’s like wonder and awe and reverence and triumph and disappointment all want a piece of you, so characteristic of the selfishness of feelings. and you don’t know what to do or where to begin, so you sit there and lose yourself in the glorious cacophony, in the crests of the curving waves. you suddenly ache for the eloquence of poets – to lend language to this sound, to untangle the tides crashing in you.

here is how it begins, with the calm before the storm. sometimes, grief comes knocking at the door, drenched in rain and shivering, and asks for your hospitality. sometimes, joy marches outside in the july sun wearing parade clothes and an unforgettable smile. sometimes, nostalgia sits next to you and tells you a story about the good in goodbyes. 

and sometimes, if you’re lucky enough and open enough, the waves become an embrace and something awakens inside you, an all-consuming light, like you just swallowed sunshine. you think there are flowerbeds in your bones, and gold in your veins. you think you are fuller than you ever were before, full with feeling. you think, holy shit. i’m waking. 

A. To get to the abyss one has to (not) be looking because where the abyss begins is where things ends and nothing takes over: that knot in your throat, when your heart has dropped, your vision filling with static.

That's where you can find the abyss, teethered to the overwhelming everything and the nothing. You can sit and dangle your feet, staring until the knot dissolves and your heartbeat returns to normal, as soon as your vision clears up you can go on your way. The abyss leaves.

But if it begins to talk? Well, that's where trouble starts. Ask the prophets, they know.