on Truth

In my eye She sparkles as a constellation of contradiction. Eyes bright, laughter like water over polished stones, quick and ready smiles. Inside Her, the current I can hear most often is not laughter, but tears. She is both sorrow and joy and dances along the interminable line between them, hoping for reprieve.

I would like to tie this up, to give you a happy ending to sing to your children in their beds of innocence. That, it seems, is what a writer can and should do - bring stability and resolution to an insecure world of mystery.

But people are not rocks, and cannot be boxed. They are not two dimensional, or three. People defy dimensionality, as does She. This story, then, does not end. She dances still, a mirage barely existing on the fringe of my perceptions. I doubt Her even as I demand Her, crave Her.

What is there to desire except a dream - to crave, except a mystery? If desire is the recourse of the fearful, then why would anybody ever desire the easily attainable and drab reality of simple facts? Fear would always intercede at the key moment when desire can be fulfilled.

I will accept this. I will try to dance away from desire and accept mystery in the only state I can fully own - reverent awe. Where desire would stop Her dancing, I will set her free and dance my own steps, eyes wide open, trying desperately to time my music to hers.