Oxygen

People who speak in abstract either have not yet found words, are frightened of words, or already understand that they do not need words. For me, words are as real as any thing, and that mantra of yogic relaxation, the recurring prayer of the Lama, sounding so much like the ebb and flow of the ocean, renders inside me a disquiet, as if my voice were being strangled and then violently subsumed into silence or the roar of billions if particles of water that are themselves of cosmic source. 

I feel that roar inside of me, and that magnetism that draws the tide in the beating of my heart, but I also feel that those molecules, so thrashed upon in the ocean, are guided in my heart, and its rhythm finds and draws from a harsh and wild current. We tame this rhythm that lies on the outside of our skin so we can make water speak, give it its art in finer patterns than those of sand, but yet they even render words transient, as if their ancient violence and sensitivity to the remotest of change makes them lose their meaning. That moment a water particle was grappled with the most acute movement on shore, when they energy within it began to create oxygen that would give greater presence, greater matter to its constant flux, it changes the earth's surface, allowing something both musical and cosmic to enter that voiceless, motionless shore. Even that floating plankton on ocean's surface began to render into itself a new king of life that spoke with the star overhead, that returned its even larger, more complex force. So it was when those very waves began returning what they had given, and showed that even the coast itself wears down. The ocean swallows its effects with those deep and resonant waves, unlike the waves in any dam or reservoir. 

As if there were no permanence that was not change. That voiceless depth only able to speak itself through a profound and mysterious language that is our very selves. And the pages of novels and diaries, the dizzying envelopes that swoop between so many different forms and what lies between matter itself, in the forms of a pure and endless light, one that heals as it vanquishes. The energy we discover has so many paths and directions and travels at such a speed that it can no longer be called speed, and so it is impossible for me to remain calm, yet that is all that I am sure of; that we are all very young and we make our discoveries like Isaac Newton picking his well-formed pebble on the beach. But, given that this is true, there can be no death, for everything is part of a truth which permeates every atom and beyond that which exists. It also seems to be true that there are many different ways to discover, many ways of life, and our strength is perhaps like the strength of the ocean itself; to discover constants within ourselves and everywhere in our secret language which has long been hidden within the depths of our own beings, where the mind build's its protective architecture and tries to save us from fearing death, which is to say, feeling alive.

(Typewritten and found between the pages of my copy of Julio Cortazar's "Hopscotch")