If I Left

There's no telling in the stones, only people and their words. No definition without creation, and no creation without destruction. Is it our reality that is so stuck in equality? The eventual balance of everything? If everything were reduced to equations, and all of them connected, all of the destruction, creation, love, hate, care, apathy: if it were all added up, would we be left with nothing but this intoxicating gray stain of the world? A stagnation that would not only subdue us, but sublime our souls until we are nothing more than one penetrating note that simply exists forever in it's own, it's only splendor?

If I left today, would the face of God be nothing more than a still pond?

Several seconds later it's as if it all left, as if it were all never there to begin with. Are we not only the end and the beginning, or do they exist to any concrete extent? To believe in nothing or everything, the same result comes to mind: the fact that only the individual can fulfill the individual. If nothing would matter then that would be it and if it were all up for grabs then everything would be alright because everything would be existence, and as long as it continued existing everything would eventually sort itself out. Maybe the seconds were sunsets, one after another, sun rises, moons changing as the leaves fell and grew back again, as everything kept continuing despite foggy eyes or tired arms.

And so what? We're all here, some sitting on the train tracks and some diving off the waterfalls, everyone with a face staring out at something, expecting something from what comes of themselves.

Anyway, as it happened the sun did rise again. It came through my blinds when I didn't want it, painting my carpet a little whiter than it normally is, and slowly it crept up into my bed, stretching it's shining arms around me until I n my eyes and acknowledged it. But it's not a one way operation, in order to be we both have to see each other, and without each other we're both nothing or might as well be nothing. The morning music soon filled the air, and smoke streamed up into the lamp where it rested in a cloud of amber light. Everything had come back just as it had left. The trees below still rang with a droned out "ohmmm..." and the wind still came in smelling like rain. The sky would go like this: dreamy lavender to cheery peach until it was nothing but light sky blue, and morphing into the sea until it was once again light sky blue, then oranges came until it was the coals of an old fire, deep red to blood and black again. I looked up at the ceiling wishing I were somewhere out west in the rolling hills, in the desert, someplace where the sun would shine and reflect off of something orange or yellow, crisp brown and amber; I had it in my mind that my body had to be surrounded by a calm dryness. Outside the trees and ground were all green and everything was pristine, but there was no serenity within something so ideal.

Another day to smile and cry and all.