Part Zero: On Form
Few forms are stable. Few forms are self-centered. A form that seeks equilibrium within a field does not yet know what it is seeking — for the center is never where you expect to find it, and a field is only a field until something occupies it, and then it becomes a place. Or a home.
Some forms are fixed. They hold a mass that resembles the primary solids — enclosed, walled, known. All walls carry the same function: a separation. What may be allowed within. What is rejected at the periphery. Every form carries a center, whether in area or in volume. She carries hers from within — flowering outward from a self-blessing. Every wall resembles a skin. All skins are akin to walls. A physical border, fortified, unyielding. Seven in sight. I grew over the periphery of it, in pure selfishness, in pursuit.
Other forms are fragmented.
A fragmented form carries a mass displaced over distance — dispersed, clustered, unable to occupy a centralized grid. A perfect centralized grid is formed from a nine-square. But a nine-square will not afford space for a fragmented self. A fragmented self is neither radial nor linear. It shifts and changes, cries and weeps, begs and bleeds, takes one shape after another — making empty promises to gift the moon, to architect a heaven — while all of it is nothing but too rash, too sudden. Not a form. Hardly a shape. The strength having left.
A fragmented self might find comfort in a cluster. A cluster provides comfort because the forms that occupy it find themselves in close proximity — almost lacking a hierarchy, offering different functions, fulfilling unmet needs. The larger the needs, the higher the density. The higher the density, the closer the proximity. And so I found comfort in her skin — the fragmented self-embraced, coming to understand that any need to architect a heaven is unnecessary.
She is the heaven.
And yet the fragmented self-shifts. Changes. Moves from one state to another, out of fear of not meeting a need or just of abandonment — with her most heightened need being this: for the center to remain unoccupied. For if the center is occupied, the pursuit ends. And the fragmented self does not know how to stop pursuing.
So it finds itself solving a maze. Meeting a wall within the maze. Abandoning a fortified closed path. Seven in sight. Switching from one path into another, in selfish pursuit of the center — the center it glimpsed once, and could not hold, and has been circling ever since.
Part One: To Dream
I dream of the moon, the bird, the home, then me. A false dream. I dream of the bird, the moon, the home, and me. A false dream. I dream.
I dream repeatedly of you.
A recently paralyzed force that dreams of the moon comes to know that the nature of dreams is forgetfulness, so the dream must repeat itself — for an unfulfilled dream is a burning desire. An unfulfilled dream is an ongoing longing, and I long for you. Not others.
And the nature of dreams is forgetfulness, and the nature of me is denial. There is no history of it happening. If it were to happen, there would be no history. So I deny that I ever knew the beauty of your lips. Or how I slept so peacefully in your arms, dreaming of you — only to open these once-sightless eyes and whisper: have I ever told you how beautiful you are in the morning?
The nature of dreams is forgetfulness, so I whisper my dreams to ghosts — and ghosts come in any shape or form, from hopeful to fearful. To inhabit a room with high rough stone walls and a closed green door, being filled with silence, as I dream of the bird, the moon, the home, and me.
Have I ever told you how beautiful you are.
Part Two: The Bird from Heaven
To have a bird in your heart, with feathers like long silken threads — to whom other birds are grateful. Birds who knew nothing of longing waited through the slow surrender of silk, as she sheds, mourning her fallen, fallen feathers — feathers that fell like silk — what she is losing, gathered for shelter. Somewhere in the branches there are homes lined with silk, for birds who knew nothing of longing. They knew enough to wait for the spring, to gather what has fallen — an offering, a blessing returned to the self. Somewhere in the branches live birds unburdened by longing.
She knew very well how to give, offering blessing — granted the capacity to give without limit, but never the capacity to receive. Unable to accept praise or material things, especially those arriving in shades of blue. So I learned to offer only what nourishes: bread, oats, nuts, and seeds.
For the bird is formed entirely of self-blessing, a blessing flowering from within. Therefore she is the blessing, flowering inward and outward, for the self and for the other. Therefore she is in no need of a heaven to be architected — unneeding of a whispering dry voice, encapsulated in dark brown skin, worshipping early in the morning, singing: you truly are so lovely.
Naming her my heaven. Grateful for the rest. Praying to be let in, and for the morning to extend.
Once upon a time there was a bird who grew without a sheltering nest. Who grew up unprotected, missing the spring — longing for a safe self, she flowered from within. Somewhere in the branches there are homes built with her own silk.
Part Three: Unanswered Prayers
Beneath a collapsing blue dome held by seven long pillars, without the desire of longing or the dream of home — in seven long steps, in the last three, once upon a time a brave bird hoped to break free. After receiving a blessing of the self, she gave my longing — on the eighteenth of the twelfth — a home within seven stone walls, with a single door colored green. She gave my longing a place to rest — a short rest, for my longing is nothing but a paralyzing force — teaching it its own loveliness, sharing what she had gathered of a self-blessing. Beneath a collapsing blue dome that does not see or hear, unanswering to prayers, yet held by seven pillars — each one a mass of silent, rough, unyielding stone.
You truly are a self-blessing.
Part Four: Seven Long Steps
Seven long steps, separated in the form of four and three — the last three giving shape to lost desires, to old dreams, holding within them seven memories. And my longing is a memory too. Loving the color green, the pillars became deep roots — roots that do not nurture, roots like memories. And a bird whispered to me: you cannot ask a bird to shed its feathers the way another bird sheds, or to mourn in the same rhythm. I fought long —
I will fight for you. So sorry to interrupt. I'm here. I'm listening. I'm curious. Please keep going. Please tell me more.
I fought long to allow the self that received the blessing to love as something that does not belong to one shape but to others — refusing the kind of longing that paralyzes, the kind that mistakes a short rest for a permanent shelter. Roots like memories, like the heart, are to be shared with you, or others. And so I love the color green. And so I allow flowers to grow in the garden of the home of seven long stone walls, with a single door colored green, beneath a dome —
I don't know if I can give you what you need. I know, my love. I sing back: I know, my love, I know. I feel your pain, and we share the same fears. We fear the cage, the unkind eyes that cannot see, the delaying of grief — but most of all, the bonfire that leaks. As I suffer from feeling.
Tell me — how terrified are you, truly, of being seen? Of the possibility that you could be loved, deeply loved? You know what, it's okay. I will love you anyway I will love you forever.
You truly are a self-blessing. Have I ever told you how grateful I am to you.
As I witnessed a self-blessing.
Part Five: Nine Short Steps
Nine short steps, uncompared to seven — separated in the form of three long and less than short six. Seven long steps were taken, only to be paralyzed by a recently paralyzing force — collapsing, held by no pillars, not a form, hardly a shape, the strength having left. Unknowing of self-blessing. In seven steps, beneath the six, I whisper a dream to a forgetful body of ghosts. I am losing the dream of the bird.
I once prayed beneath a blue dome. I do not pray often. To pray, to worship, to cry and weep — as I shift and change with every breath. A paralyzed longing, a force that paralyzes others, knowing no rest, no self-blessing. I share my dreams with familiar beasts and forgetful ghosts, but not others. Not others.
Hearing a loving, ghosting voice, afraid to dream of a nest — you mistook shelter for permanence. Dissolve the memory, deny her love and all its clear relations. Fear. To collapse under the weight of the silken feather. To collapse under the weight of the blessed self. You are a sun casting an overwhelming shadow — a shadow that paralyzes others — a bonfire that continuously leaks, leaving two bright stars on your shoulder as a reminder that you can collapse under the weight of a single feather in less than six short steps. The nature of dreams is forgetfulness, and as I dissolve the memory, I deny that I ever knew the beauty of your lips. Or how I slept so peacefully in your arms, repeatedly dreaming of you — since the eighteenth of the twelfth.
As what I became — a recently paralyzed force that provides morning headaches. A disorganized cluster, a shape without form. A hollow shell of a worm, encapsulating a tongue capable of both worshipping and whispering — but nothing else — whispering with a dry, stuttering voice meaningless, worthless words. A worthless self. Weeping eyes — a gesture without motion, like a paralyzing force. Like a man with rat's feet. Like a hollow man who does not dare to meet your eyes in any dream, who once prayed with weeping eyes to be taught how to love, endlessly praying — only to receive, in answer, his physical body offered in the place of devotion — his hollow shell, long, hard, empty and erect. His flesh without worship, closeness without presence. Full lips encapsulating a worthless tongue, speaking a foreign language as the meaning is lost. Lips that devour, not kiss. Having once been taught to be gentle, only to arrive at enclosure — a void between the prayer and its answer, hopes and dreams crashing as they meet the woken state. Who failed to worship. I did.
In the dreaming of eighteen steps, I only walked less than six — in a house of seven rough, high stone walls. I witnessed a self-blessing. Not receiving. Not possessing. Witnessing.
Part Six: Kneeling in Devotion
A singular object — a marking in space — allowed sight to rest. One bright body occupied the full domain of vision, eliminating all else from view. Elimination became rest, and rest became surrender. Desire and fantasy follow vision — so I, too, surrendered to a single bright object, as I slept in her arms and dreamt of a thousand moons and a bird.
In the dream, a thousand bright moons rest in a radial arrangement, occupying the periphery of a circle, and one brighter full moon occupies the center. A thousand moons kneel in quiet devotion to one more radiant than all — and among the thousand, I kneel too, knowing I failed to architect you a heaven.
In another dream that displaces another.
I am waiting for another five steps to pass, to re-enter the door on the eighteenth — after I left the home before I could take a full six steps. She told me: the next lover will reap the fruits of your hoarded plenty.
But I am longing to hear the sound of a promise that will not be fulfilled — waiting for five steps, willing to wait a non-symbolic five years. Asking: come home with me. Hoping to free myself through a denial in the form of an answer. Waiting. Five steps, and you pass from forgetfulness into absence. As the bird says I wasted another morning — I only hear her say: next time, save your prayers, you who fail to worship. Save them for a blue dome.
For I forgot that I once took the moon as a lover. He remains the kindest of all — kind from a distance, unwilling to share the taste of his lips, denying me the soft touch of his skin. I was told: the next lover will reap the fruits of your hoarded plenty. I only hoarded dreams. The nature of dreams is forgetfulness.
Part Seven: 11 O'Clock of a Friday Night
One
God does not give with both hands. A long night provides no rest — as I cried and wept, doing my thing. Collecting the traces of memory, silencing the calls of the owls, displacing the frogs. Making sure to fulfill one last action from her to-do list, which reads: to clean every trace before Philip returns on the twenty-fourth of June. Giving safety to the house of seven high stone walls with a single door colored green — watering the roots of the flowers in the garden.
I am collecting the traces of my memory in a white box, fearful to pick a red promise in the form of a scarf — a promise that was forced, accepted only under pressure. And a ring.
Forgive me, my love. My love was short, naïve, and young. I thought it would last forever… dismantle the moon abounded the sun.
Two
In the centralized form of a fortress of high stone walls, where once lived a recently paralyzed force — a disorganized cluster, a shape without form. A hollow shell of a worm.
The worm is seeing. Not weeping, not collapsing, not receiving. Just seeing. Seven walls in sight — seven walls erected over seven years, every year the walls grew thicker, rougher, higher. With the eighth in sight.
Erected by a bird and a blind unseeing eye, held in a numb and inanimate body, erecting pillars yet lacking an erection — sitting on a black chair, leaning in comfort, with a mask for a face and a filthy breath, but a recently trimmed beard.
Three
With a mask for a face, eyes always wide shut — leaning in comfort over a green couch. A mask will not soften unloving skin, enclosing a seven-year-old drunken heart soaked in beer and wine, a filthy breath. A soft eye cover that will not free his sight. A man unwitnessing of the bird's self-blessing — with rough hands, senseless, nerveless, dead to the feeling of silk, eyes that could not see, even as she stood naked before him. Yet witnessed by others — for the body in the garden is naked to all, to kind eyes and unkind alike, to the abandonment of privilege, to a gentle form of betrayal. A tongue lacking words, a naked body seeking the warmth of a sun that does not cast an overwhelming weight in the form of a shadow. Or a bonfire that leaks — the repetition of actions and the lack of words making everything less holy, giving my body a hollow shell and a meaningless voice . For a naked body I failed to worship. For your heart I prayed to be let in. My eyes are kind.
Four
Barren land, barren time, no fruits in sight. For the bird is lacking anger for the self, fearing to abandon others. Seven years, seven pillars — with the eighth in sight. Seven years into the eight, seven walls to eight, a fortified fort with eight walls in sight. With a given prophecy from seven to eight to ten — unwilling to fade, unwilling to rest.
For the bird — seven years of memories, steel bonds, one stone welded into another. Seven years, no blame. A drunken heart who drove her blackout fucking drunk.
Unkind eyes. Sitting, reclining in my black chair — he is waiting for another meal to be served, enjoying what the bird willingly gives. Another meal will not fill his stomach, so he pours himself a drink, keeping the daily streak. As he does his Duolingo lessons. Keeping the daily streak. Another thing she willingly gives. Another thing taken away from me. Another thing I lost.
As I suffer from feeling, he suffers from none.
What have I lost? A loving eye that saw me. Arms that held me in a warm embrace. A home. My heaven. A mother. Everything. I lost everything.
I dreamt of the bird. I see beauty in her eyes. I see beauty in letting go. I dream of me. The nature of dreams is forgetfulness.
Five
I was wearing my headphones while I cleaned. About to leave, a song by Banks played. What I learned from a traveler: there is a world to discover, but home is love. So I wept a little. Just a little.
I served one last meal right before my departure: a sliced apple, a small peach, covered with cinnamon, some nuts and seeds. I found a few-days-old bread I was instructed should not be wasted, and then I made some lemon tea. A glass of water with a tablet of electrolytes — the water had a salty taste even before the tablet dissolved. I knew it had been mixed with my tears. I also knew that today she would desire a sweet breakfast. I wished I could make the bird her favorite oats, but we had run out.
Eliminating traces — there is no history of it happening. If it were to happen, there would be no history.
One dream erases another. One bond displaces another shattering both hearts .
Anyway. I really came to hate the German language. I also really hate the smell of beer. Anyway. Okay, moving on.
Six
Finally, I hid another note.
Witnessed only by ghosts, a pillar and a wall — a voice reads: I love you the best. And you, the bird, you are the kindest lover ,
I will love you forever.
A paralyzing force — like a morning headache. As I left, I was somehow calm. I don't know what to do with that.
As I took the last step — obeying my mind, ignoring the heart, losing the self — knowing, or unknowing, that I would regret this leaving — my back was bent, my head was not held high, and I did not walk tall, and my eyes were still leaking. just tired. Like a man who simply could not straighten his back on the way out, knowing he is unable to share a home with others, but knowing he can love.
I left through the green door and provided myself — as I have been taught — with one last wish. I left looking at the time. I left exactly at eleven o'clock and eleven minutes, on the thirteenth of June.
Praying that blessing be among the selves — the bird, myself, and others.
Or anyone who may bring her love .