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October 10, 2018 | | Comments 0

The Explorer

October 10, 2018

 

 

Some do not weep when others think they ought to, not because they’re aloof, closed-hearted, conceited or complacent, some have visited Sorrow so often that its lands have endowed its traveler a certain plot, figuratively and literally, a clearing in the woods, a knoll by the River Styx, a sunny outcrop of ceremonial boulders near where the jungle ends and the desert begins:

this explorer isn’t numb to the suffering of others, doesn’t look the other way when Danger clears its throat or an accident sprawls out in the midst of a quiet library, like an avalanche in Summer: this explorer is being explored by what its sought, found, let go for Continuance sakes and shaking-ly found again, yet doesn’t grip it like a gun or cane:

this explorer isn’t hiding on the ‘other side’, isn’t in the clouds or a medium for what others cannot see:

this explorer isn’t retired, returned, burned out or done, its a soul that doesn’t arrive because its come from somewhere or leave because there’s greener pastures a field mouse has gossiped about existing ‘just over that hill, continent, mountain or ocean’:

this explorer is something they themselves cannot know, explain or teach, there’s a quietness that resides in its acceptances, its looking, responding, touching and feeling:

when this explorer does cry, it births rain on new planets, in the dreams of those thirsting to death, it raises things that cannot die, who have nonetheless been entombed for Eternity,
it moves about the Wasteland without wasting Time, Space, Reason or Purpose,

when the explorer sees you suffering, in-between the mists and hard iron fists of Life’s forge, you feel its eyes upon you,
you feel the yearning from stars that you could understand why your wishes cannot be fulfilled right away; there’s a timeline of timelines, there’s a mother who bore Medusa, there’s a quiet soul stitched inside all Viking genomes:

The explorer has no choice but to breathe Death’s fumes in and exhale the fragrance of Life back out, from carcass to crocus, from the fright of hospice to the sight of a newborn first ray of light:

it walks in and out of extremes, conjures, spells, quietens and lets Letting go exist: it is neither neutral or a paradox, its an occupant in a land where none can live happily, living happily and planting sand granules and plants alike.

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