Archetypes

Sometimes I think we meet the same handful of people -- maybe five, or ten, or even twenty -- over and over, again and again, cyclical and ceaseless (life as a prayer wheel). And like this, perhaps, everything can be infinite, because it keeps coming back around, not stoppable, here were are again at the beginning, and doesn't-this-taste-familar. Perhaps it's all a giant secret test, to see how long we can manage to go on and on through all of this before we finally start to see a little bit of what might result; does it take a lifetime before our tiny little brains can learn to recognize a pattern? Several lifetimes, maybe; a longer-than-eternity.

Here is a truth. Everything will unravel, and the ground will crumble beneath your feet, and you will fall and fall and fall. This is how these things happen. Or, you will slice through the ropes around you, toss everything into disarray and difference, and jump (and fall and fall, and fall). There is, probably, a third option; I cannot put a finger on it, now. The falling is out of your hands; the moments just before (and just after) -- those are yours to mold and twist and re-shape as you wish. And so, it changes nothing while it changes everything.

Two glasses of wine, and I wake at 5:00am, clawing my way out of an endless spiral of disturbed, disordered sleep, bad dreams. Each time I woke, falling back into them, into a deeper hole, so this time I get up -- dull headache at the edges of my thoughts -- drink cold water, sit up and think, wake up entirely. So what I tell you, then, is maybe not enough, or not fully-formed complete. It is early morning darkness words, remaining whispered. It makes me think that we have met before (that you are someone else -- and perhaps you are, even though you aren't). The pieces can, after all, be rearranged to form whatever picture you might desire (except that in the end, you only have so many pieces, and the picture will end up familiar, no matter what you do). The same handful of things, of people, of circumstance, again and again and again. And every time we halfway glimpse it, we fall back in, deeper. After an hour, maybe more, I am awake enough to go to sleep again, and this time I do not dream of anything at all (or if I do, it doesn't touch me).

What I meant to say, was this -- I wish there was a way that I could pluck you from mid-air and ease the fall; I wish that I could catch you.