Is it lonely to stand so tall?
A mountain with nothing, no one else, in its view.
Is it dry to find you have no fear left,
and to know that the length of the universe is nothing but however many steps you take?
Is it terrible to be infinitely alive?
To have nowhere else, no end, no way to die?
how long is it, exactly, to be free?
I stopped by that house I’d like to grow old in.
It was old, and a little broken, with an uncompromising sea view—
That day, she had her doors wide open,
with white cotton curtains dreaming in the salty sea-blowing.
All the windows were open,
and, no one seemed to be home (although they were probably just in the back at that precise moment).
The house was calling me in.
But, I knew that I couldn’t do it.
Although this dream-house was real, just six steps away from me,
I felt the river of time flowing in between
I was here,
she was across.
There’s no way but through.
So, I told her I’ll walk in,
but, I’ll be drenched and soaking.
Wait for me.
To know is to hurt.
Because knowledge is pain
It hurts where the world broke your skin,
where the light came flooding in,
where an old beast used to sleep.
To know is to bear the weight;
to always carry a wide, soft, jupiterian-gravity-like heaviness
on your shoulders ever-ready to brace.
To know is to hope and wait until opportunity emerges, or the time comes
to transfer it to another;
Not for any kind of real release—because that’s not possible once you know things—
but, for the simple reason of not being alone under a mountain’s weight.