Something whispers from behind my eyes. A door opens when the windows shut, candles blowing out with a startling hush. The days of dreaming rush back, revealing hidden secrets, somehow unwound with-in my existence. I seek to reveal the meaning I seek. Unbidden, I claim every symbol as that revelation. Blinded, everything points in the direction of my schema. Strange how the mirror is always lingering in the sight lines of the truth.
I did not invent the language, I did not tell the story. I am not the first to fall into these webs and wires. Irreverent, I become the referent, carefully wearing all of these unseen emperor's robes. I sing the song I have heard since before I recognized singing, I repair the story with whatever happens to be lying about. I see the martyr and I see the hero. I see the bodhisattva and I see the christ. The native tongue and the haunted cradle have tricked my eyes from before they were opened. That lean towards blessings and enlightenment mostly the software of ten thousand extinguished flames. The machine hard at work minimizing the vastness of experience.
I am like the flower, though not in radiant beauty. I am like the flower, though less rapaciously sexual. We are distant kin, the flower one of many solutions that life has grappled in search of that most perfect of variables. The problem of continuity, of the proper acknowledgement of self and other, the difficult wrestling with the best way to be, the assurance of existence in this world. The flower is counting on the extant insect or bird or bat or wild wind to spread its seed, mingling in the right ratio for this form to endure. I am a dead end, a bluff combination of gene expression and mangled culture left to guess and trumpet. Like the flower, my ruse and tactics end. We play the brutal odds, every being a gamble life has taken against the void. Dumb or transcendent, loud or as secret as some distant star, that is the story shared.