77. All things real

In intellectual detention. Still unable to say if I think at all. The gods in exile, replaced by a convoluted concept, that of confusion - the fanatical effort to explain a causeless aphasia. My native inner world always on the brink of the mind. Nothing but you, children and grandchildren, external to me. That I can love as an emotion as ancient as I am. You have been my legend, my total history. And I bend low to hear the heart of things. My shapeless voice, its uncanny wings deployed, quivering over the sand, swaying through a wild yellowed wind. A mental desert that wobbles every time I crouch close to matter to hear the heart of things. Losing a precarious balance, the dunes invariably reconfiguring disorder. But the love of you able to make it all the way outside, and unruffled. To see a beach and the sea. A pure white morning mist, the artful mantel of nearby hills like the ones in Matapedia. Stable venerable rocks calling over the tide. All things real. Preparing me as a child to one day have a child. I sat there alone, for hours, getting ready to hear the heart of things. Leaving the mind far away in the loops of strong accidental storms, my reasoning full of grainy, entangled filaments like the broken fabric of a flapping worn out flag no longer marking anything, but the long length of the past to come until you appear, and pull me into the world.

Laolao