The sun shines equally over all, except those who hide in caves, hearts caved in. And me… only a thin fibre of light upon my face.
The roof of my hall is wet wood, more apt to obscure the sun than shelter from rain. Heavy drops, like tears, like thoughts of a prior life, lost along a great journey, make their way to the coals of my fire, and vanish in a cloud of smoke.
Looking up, all alone, hand in hand, hair long and wet, face built upon the quiet, silently staring through cloud and moonlight, into the abyss.
Night follows day, day follows night, but the surface of the moment remains intact, whole, glistening like quicksilver, a treacherous mirror for deluded eyes, oil in the sun, enemy of water.
From water I came on my little boat, born of thirst, and to water I will return, in the end. All the fools sailed away except for one – one who demanded a funeral rite, corpse carried downstream, a burning mast of his own, riches sinking to the bottom, and a skull to rest in the deep.
Humanity is given, to be transcended, a gift that gives for a while, and then must be returned. So I must cut the surface, in initiation, standing in the river, clothed in frost and crude linen, drowned for my own good, returning on the verge of death. No longer afraid.
Spinning in circles on the quiet surface, for too long, far too long, I am tired, yet unyielding as the sun above me, and the father of my soul.
I care not if a shore exists, somewhere, anywhere, and if I will ever reach it.
I will wait for the currents to decide.