Belonged

The French novelist Colette wrote that smokers introduce into their lives l’oisiveté — idleness — each time they light a cigarette. Though I could not recall the original wording nor the precise context of that quote, its core sentiment pushed me to never smoke in pursuit of idleness itself. Rather, the artificial malaise of tar in my lungs and sinuses was of utmost importance to my endeavors. After taking the same loop around the block on Sherbrooke and finishing one or two cigarettes, I returned to my studio apartment — my un et demi, as the locals called it — located in the downtown student quarter. I continued typing in a nicotine-fueled frenzy, adding to the same Word document, until I went to bed with my overworked computer fan still whirring away. I put on my headphones, hit “Play” on my cassette Walkman, and dozed off to the same piano recording I listened to every night.

For you, I sing another song. What mystery has all the petals of your heart? Under which skies has it wilted and revived?

The skies of death and rebirth come frequently and swiftly, here. This is yet another beginning, but faster and more comprehensive. The mysteries reveal themselves only to draw out new ones, a calmly coruscating cycle of changing challenges comes closer.

Sparkle in the eye is the joining of two souls in harmony. The fate of man is written in the stars that twinkle of their very own accord. May all the jewels and beauties of the world be shown, reflected on the hidden polished mirror of perception. I have seen you for a glimpse.

This will not be the only glimpse you see of my truer forms, it’s deliciously enticing to be addressed so magnanimously and respectfully. Your words honestly strike like flattery, since fairly none dare to write like you, let alone persistently. To be addressed so makes me blush.

No flattery, for I shall ask for nothing! May that be my one promise to you, friend, for the fruit of words is to be judged plainly: that which keeps someone in debt or servitude, or preys upon the fault of all since Adam, is fit for fire!

If what I say may free you from your sorrow, then I shall speak a thousand words. I came to see a truth in an unspeakable tongue, and so resolved to make an art of the simple and mundane. Your face, not meant for me to see, was crafted by someone beyond me. I love them, and you.

We seek a form of formlessness, a shapely shapelessness that goes by numerous names, and none. To express the ineffable and shine lights through hidden spaces, forever finding everything and nothing, contentedly. It is a work of beauty and built upon symbols alone.

The brimming cup shall fill the empty sea.

He] has anointed me, my cup runneth over. Only loving kindness shall I pursue all my life, and dwell in the space of sacred spirituality until end of days. You really know how to draw it out of me. But then, those with your command and love of words are few, and far between.

The words are boxes, Tupperware containers. The food you ate, the nourishment of your vessel, came not from my efforts but from the warm hearth in the abode you have maintained, in wait for the honored guest that you invite. If only I could smell your kitchen, and taste a meal.

To be seen is to be alive. To be read is to be pulled into the chamber, and cast on the sheets, and opened. The spine shall bear the child of spirit, the deep murmur of the floating unknown, the milk and honey of our promised land. And yet, no body shall bow. We lie, and stand.