And if the lesson is everything you don’t want to hear? And if that might be some other truth, silent, along with the three-sided die, the water’s edge, and a morning thick with fog?
In the story about the young botanist and the trees, it was the recognition of a difference which always related back to oneself which marked the beginning.
In the story about the grieving man and the ocean, it was the unholding of the waves that broke the possibility of an ending.
A story makes none of it easier. Sand still moves over sand. Writing still walks up to the edge and looks across. There is still nothing to see, save for a phone call across some small distance.
I mean hear, listen, hear this.
What the trees don’t say, what they shade with their cover, is exactly what they’ve made their home out of. Which to say a certain kind of breath.
Years ago, when trying to find my way, I tried opening a sentence up to itself. I split it into its twelve parts. I made each an anchor from which to make a small journey.
The problem, then, the same as now.