790. through the door

Trev's journal . . .


She walks through the door and what happens next is hard to explain. It starts with a look, of eyes that see only the moment, that see from someplace known not of sight or touch or any sense. The eyes look as if the soul is looking, as one looks for what was lost and is now found; and what is seen is raw, naked, without artifice, without facade or agenda, pure as hammered sweat upon the rail. The seeing is felt as one feels water when swimming or diving, as from the bottom looking up and all around beams of light refract minnows among beige and blue. The looking is of life alive, of a train coming to station in the night, inevitable, of a wait ended, ending, of a journey about to begin, of time and watches jettisoned or stopped or broken or just not applicable. Everything fades and vision is as sunlight, which is to say everywhere and nowhere all at once. Most of all, past and future exit. The looking is pure present. And what flows forth, time and time again, day after day, only grows, deepens--and this belies explanation, as looking seems afresh, new, like every day was the first day of school, every kiss the first date, every hug as a hug a thousand days out.

The above was crossed out. No date given as to revision.

She walks through the door and what happens next is hard to explain. It starts with a look, of eyes that see only the moment, that see from someplace known not of light and shadow or form and shape. They look as if the soul is looking and what is sought is not something other nor something of human hand or mind. She is the math we are yet to know.

Upon the distance closed, within musket range one might say, the things of this world slip from bound and moor and past and future fade with all earthly delusions. Gravity, too, treads not on this sacred ground, this place of harp and wing, of skies beyond the pale blue of terrestrial life.

There is breathing, to and from, warm, heated between lips tender in desire not of body or mind but in union of what once was, before sight, before thought. And light blurs as with speed, as through a portal of life in reverse, of childhood, of birth, womb, and then, weightlessness. There is nothing heavy of this place. And there is nothing separate. The moment is eternal. The feeling is of home, of a place known just beyond our consciousness.