Through the dawn, behind its pastel painted cold sweat, its invisible borders and mortar and false feelings of separation from the day before, lies a swell.
So subtle, like most things real, it hides in wait for hunters. Lost children who have wandered off the path, run in tangents into the woods, tearing at the heavy things that adorn them, as they run. Feet barely touching the ground.
All things too shiny, too dull, falling from them and disappearing into thin air as they hit the earth. They weren’t real anyhow. Not in this world: this pathless in between, where one only treads when hunting infinity. Barefoot, dirty, light.
Close your eyes and you’ll hear it.
Pulsating from across time.
Each rise: a mountain, a stream about to overflow.
Feet pounding now. The green world numbs, soles tear at earth, clawing forward, past this world and into mirrored labyrinths of sound.
Once subtle, now surrounds, each beat scorches the veins. Coursing through the bloodstream like gasoline ignited.
Impossible to tell where the air ends and the skin begins.
And because I can no longer see through my eyes, we collide. Blood and fire implode. The pulse elongates and becomes one sound. Time stands still.
I try to move and realize this is not air: it’s water. And I am floating. We are. The calm is almost deafening.
And when I open my eyes: my life. Small but infinite.
We have always been inside, home, floating, waiting for each path to run its course. For the air to disappear, for the pulse to become one sound.
Endless dawn.
