Nàng

her
first and foremost it is to humor you

i sprawl out on the waves and wait, or you want to create a burst shattering all dreariness in the exploration of conscious being, white primordial night, the wisdom of river snails or of leaves that can watch the wind’s method of movement is equal to discovering a nascent bud or you are forced to return to where your journey began, i sprawl out on the waves and think of her, and start to feel tired with the world always hiding within itself trite and tattered things, reeking of didacticism, bookish politics, bookish philosophy, bookish books, thick with canonical poetry, canonical history, canonical philosophy, no, let’s call them containers of our human thought, replete with theories, theorising, theoretical theory [or theory of the theoretics, the same], replete with claims, acclamations, inculcations, replete with consensus, compromises, replete with agendas and resolutions, the contemporary mind as one without any free space to frolic or sulk [or after thousands of years the cruel wind still tears at the banana leaves on the far side of the veranda] i sprawl out on the wave and see her flickering between moments that tip toward withering, how could you get like this i cry, but everything seems normal for her, don’t be afraid, i’m still the messenger of upheavals to world perception, she says, afraid that i’ve misheard i tell her to repeat what she just said, i always move among dust with the task of bringing glorious illusions to humans who live in the time of written history, i hear something off in her voice [or some gruesome harassment taking place] but what about prehistoric time, i try to shriek above the wave, it is a tornado and i am just one of its shredded bits, i hear her voice farther and farther away, perishing in the thick of the shrieking waves, could it be the great flood i wonder, waves surge and thrust me up high, high enough that i may very well be hurled out of the sea, yet no, an exile amidst the vast blue, as i feel my sudden dive into the watery abyss, i immediately think about never seeing her again, an eternity of never seeing her again, but this is just the creator’s joke, now someone shrieks into my memory, who would come to me at moments like this, i catch a glimpse of a face, no, a figure, stepping in a cycle, don’t be afraid, just mere fractions of time, it seems a body of language is speaking in my mind, massive waves keep slinging me up and down, an exile among the contemporary, or the glaciers at both poles are melting, the great flood of written history, i think, and woefully notice a familiar mountain peak in my memory [which mountain i wonder] a wooden boat docked at the mountaintop is decaying into pages interlaced with the cuneiform inscriptions on clay tablets that lie in pieces beneath the earth, posterity’s comments are accompanied by words from an ancient text… the seventeenth of the month on that day all the streams of the great abyss spring forth, all heaven doors open wide [which ancient text i wonder] please wait for me there, a cry bursts from me upon seeing the great flood of an earlier time, but in the end i did not die, the waves wash me ashore to an island, the first thing i recognize on the island is the scent of her hair, the scent of hair, i know now, in the harshness of evolution, you are but the fragrance that lingers in mud.