Sometimes It Takes Little

One has not need to walk in the dark to see little.  One has not need to drink from the fountain to quench his thirst.  And, one has not need to wonder why it is difficult to sleep through the nights, anymore.

I see no signs in the woods when I walk there in the dark.  The familiarity of the wet grounds, the shushes an overhanging branch makes upon my shoulder when I rub against it, and the familiar aroma of polyporus mushroom on decaying tree trunks lead my way.  I do not close my eyes, but do not force them open.  I do not walk slowly, yet I am never in a rush.

I never found the fountain, but I know it opens wide upon the flank of a hill, perhaps near a meadow of a forsaken land.  Yet I drink its waters, in a cup, or using my palm and clinched fingers.  I drink its waters like a bird does on a hot day, dripping a few drops upon its chest, or cleaning its wings with a moistened tongue.

I have not slept peacefully since I recall my last peaceful sleep.  It is not the bed, it is not the dream.  It is the sleep itself which has changed.  It is a populated sleep, often unable to host all the faces, bodies, lips, tears, pains, songs, demands, cries, and promises of the torturous worlds where I find myself, upon often used or even new pillows. 

… One has not need to see all what’s around him, but one has to walk to places unknown.

One has not need to wash his face at the source of all thoughts that no water can ever wash.  Yet, one has to remember the source, think of the fountain for waters are always the same but all thirst is new.

And one has not need to sleep, alone or next to inviting hips.  It is a time to keep away from the times of days, when all around you are asleep and all around you is new.

What counts, after each walk and each embrace upon a dulcet pillow, is the time we do not count.  For counted time is of boundaries ligated, and it is of freedom shy.  What counts, is when we lose the count of goodbyes we have said, near a hospital bed or a train station at midnight.  What counts is the joy of drinking from your own palm.  Or from the palm of someone else.

June 2, 2009

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013