Some small thing inside me, a probe or a hand, reach, looking for the other part. The part that holds answers. The missing piece that wants and gives with the same kind of energy. It seeks the blanket that keeps out the cold and perks up its ears for the sounds that make this place seem less lonely. A pot crashing or a toilet flushing. In this life our journey is marked by the elements that move throughout the years, changing who we are and defining what we need.
I can’t explain how it feels to be the rock but I know for sure what it means to be the water. Carving through time with an imperceptible gravity, eating earth with a mercilessly lazy grind. Youthful eyes tell you that the course is within your power to alter. Time will show you otherwise. This path was here long before me. These hungers were carved into my gut by cave men with rocks for weapons and grass for a bed. Since I cannot be the earth, I am too young to fight, I will be the water. I will know the flow and I will follow.
And when the water runs my blood cold and I become the force who has no heart, I will seek the fire. I will run across the earth and leave ash where once was wood and civil life. Everyone that sees me arrive will reach to touch and recoil in pain. The good pain. The kind that cleanses and releases seeds. Dark scars will remain long beyond times desire to remember. People will speak of my wretched war path until they die and then their children will tell the stories that soon become the myths that teach the young ones to revere the fire, to run at the sight of a blaze. But we know how that story ends. Do we not? What you fear you need to touch and what you touch will burn you.
The only antidote to a burn so ancient is the green blue heaven of water. Submerge the wounded limb far into a pool and there you will find forgetting. Pain will leave and rise as a steam, now you can sweetly join the wind. Freedom is here, movement is here, forever is here. On the wind there is no time or body and now you are truly married to everything. What you seek is found here and though it gives no true knowledge, there is no need of it any how. What is left of you, the one who knows nothing and is marked by everything?
The body held behind is the root. It is the earth that bears the marks, the seeds, the gulleys. Time runs through you and for that you are made immortal. You are a part of the we and the hand you reach for is your own. The getting home was hard but there is comfort in trial, strength in battle. And the snake works its way around so as to bite its own tail. At this place we begin again.