Olive Branch

I met a girl in a gas station. She had a beautiful pea coat and disposition as if she were looking for something. She left with a pack of gum and my number. Had she asked? It wasn't clear, but she took it . Beautiful blue eyes and wonderful hair, with mystery to spare. She reminded me of all the elegance in the wor.

She took me into the city and up her Victorian row. Up her victorian stairs and into her victorian house. It was extraordinary.

It dawned on me that I was floating away. I had to consciously ground myself. It was easy to forget where I was.

She made us a vegetarian meal and shared a glass of Merlot. She played music on a record. Half way through the meal she got up to flip it. It was the quaintest thing I'd ever seen.

The food complimented the colors of her dress and her style complimented her home. Everything was organic perfection. The thought of humanity here did not disturb me as it does other times. The grotesque nature of life was nowhere to be found. We talked philosophy and the human condition and found that our ideas shared easily. Their paths to which were completely different but where they converged there was conviction, and likewise, freedom. It reaffirmed their nature to themselves.

She studied architecture and the arts of all kinds. Not at school, just in her spare time, which she had plenty of. She was an editor and a writer, with interests in physics and the occult. Things that interested heros. She was what I'd dreamed of being. She was what I wanted.

In a throw of solipsism she appeared to be a projection of my imagination, but I ignored the disruption. I wondered what she'd have to say about that. I couldn't imagine her being afraid. She probably would have laughed at it. Understood. The things I'd banished to the imagination were here and in full-fledged form and breathing, in the flesh. Life was again miraculous.

She drove me home to the outskirts of town and dropped me off with a hand shake. It was the most generous moment of my life. I gave her a smile and turned to walk away. I contemplated the future.

She was something to behold. A real creature of fiction. A mythological beast of beauty with a gravity as steep as stars. She'd come to reveal parts of myself I'd never known existed and in doing so the two of us would be bound together. She started a movement inside me that would never. She left without a word.

History doesn't repeat itself when you're looking to recreate it. Only the bad things recur. As long as you remember, there is a shadow over memory and novelty has no place. But I couldn't help it. I started pursuing ambitions. I delved into a world of creation. I lost myself to wonder. I imagined a timeline of interwoven cross sections of artistic intentions and believed that If I continued on this way - and that if she did too - we'd meet again somehow. Sitting in my apartment I thought of her empty house. Where had she gone? I wanted to stand in its emptiness, the feel the reality of loss. But that was not going to happen. It was a dilemma of immense proportions for me at the time that reverted me to infantile philosophies I'm ashamed to say. It became a test of recalibration and recognition. I had to accept time.

It was mid day and it'd been a while since I had made a meal without asking why. I sat down to read but couldn't concentrate. The open blinds were too bright and the world outside was nagging. I became disenchanted with pleasure and aspiration. It all seemed doomed, like setting off to sail on a boat that would sink. Was it worth the candle?

Parts of me said and yes and other parts said no, so I laid down in bed and woke up in the night. A curious moment. Unsure of the time. I wanted to go outside but something about the vastness scared me. I stayed indoors for a bit and sat in quiet agitation. Finally I went. The sky was deep and dark and consumed my field of vision. I became acutely aware of my peripheral edges and of the things I didn't know. It humbled me. Terrified me. Its sheer potential sent tremors through my body. I felt like a fly in a web. There was nothing to do but wait. And think. And imagine other worlds. And as I did so I found myself in a position to believe. I became autonomous. I raised my hand to examine it. Reeled into it all. I was the center of the universe, in that solitary moment. Something beat my heart, Nature made me breath, I was bound to the prison of being, and I appreciated it. I was inclined to forfeit it all in a demonstration of sovereignty but Nature took me by the hand and showed me. The clean oxygen cycled through me like a drug. It left me dizzy and dreamy. I was scared of my heart so I studied it. It was excited. I waited for it to stop, like I'd done so many times before, knowing it would eventually, feeling this moment to be the one. It was different, after all. The moment was always new.

Eventually I sighed and went inside and welcomed sleep as death. It felt nice setting sail that night, inhibitions to the wind. I let faith guide the way and woke up in the morning.

The sun refreshed my mind and cast uncertainty onto my curiosity. Life would be worth living, it seemed to affirm. The key was in my hand. Doubt would be the end of all, I realized. Was it really possible? To end your life with nothing but your mind? There was only one way to find out, but I didn't have the courage. I came to reason that the emotion didn't exist. That you just couldn't physically do it. And yet there were those who died of broken hearts. Who left with their will to live. Human beings were living breathing things that depended on eachother. On love and fear. Who were they without it, when they are at their most despondent, most courageous? We are bound to the earth by dependants and slaves to the prison on mind. And deep down we know that this world is the same as that world, and that whoever we lose to it, we can find there. And that its profundity can only be felt when it allows itself to be seen. It wasn't something to find, to dig out, to intrude upon. It was something to accept an invitation from. Like a beautiful girl with innocent eyes and a predisposition for something. Who didn't know what she wanted but knew that she would find it - with and soft discretion. Patience was its gift and transience was its lesson.

She will be something that comes to me like thoughts on a cloudy night. Her words will be a mirror and her mind will be a stage. Her identities will dramatise and captivate to tears. She dance from one to another and play with masks of fate. The only way to keep up with her would be to learn to do the same.