From the Beginning

Part journal, part love story

From the beginning

　

　

There is an old song that comes to his mind from time to time. A lovely tune, at least he thinks so, that is as nearly as old as he. No need for some device to repeat the notes to his ears, for they are already in his mind, and the song lives there now. They all do.

He still lies in the bed as the music plays on. He had been lazily watching a small spider tucked away in a ceiling corner, but now closes his eyes as the lyric starts on cue.

“There might have been things I missed, but don't be unkind

It don't mean I'm blind

Perhaps there's a thing or two I think of lying in bed

I shouldn't have said

But, there it is

You see, it's all clear

You were meant to be here from the beginning...”

　

The old song finishes with him and sinks back into the deep.

He remains still and would have appeared, were any there to witness, to have fallen back into sleep. But he is alone, and he is awake.

At some point one would wonder, were any there to witness, if in fact this poor soul had passed entirely into the next life altogether. But he is alone, and he is alive.

At last his spirit returns and he draws in great, slow breaths. Steady. Deep. Focused. Breath. His eyes slowly open, still fixed upon the corner where the spider was knitting together its residence. Nature was diligent and orderly, he thinks. No wasting away of its life. It knew its purpose and went about it, oblivious to mans existence.

But now that she had left, he was the spider. He would begin the process of building.

He could not spend every waking hour in this place, he knew. There was a life elsewhere that needed him, and he was a good man. Although, to be needed can be a blessing or a curse, and the clarity of the line between the two was, on some days, hard to see.

So he has decided to spend time here as much as possible. This is a quiet place for him. Solitude. Seclusion. She has left for a while and the place is his to explore. There are gardens and meadows and forests for him to delight in. To lose himself in. This is a place where anything he conceives will be. A place of clarity. A place to breath. It is to here that he must travel when he needs to be himself, and not someone else. He muses that if enough time is spent here, it will slowly start to go back with him when he leaves and the person he is not, on that side of the mirror, will have been vanquished.

 

He misses her already. This is the first day that she has been gone, and he aches. But it is good. It is needed.

She has taught him to stand once again.

Now he must.

She had come into his life on February 14th, 2014. Valentine’s Day. The anniversary day of the death of his mother. The world was funny that way. It had taken him quite by surprise. He was immediately captivated by her. He saw that she came from the same place he was from.

And both of them were trying to find their way back.

The words that will be written in these pages are just for him. They are his words and his thoughts. And if she comes back to him, as she has promised she would, he may share these words with her.

He truly hopes that she does.

　

　

　

The spider sat in the palm of his hand. Safe. He gazed at its perfection, its flawless design. He had never been one for needless brutality, and knew even now that this spider would live a long, full life. Just not above the bed. It started to scurry across his hand, over the edge and beyond. He would keep twisting his hand to keep the little creature upright. How it would run! From the palm to the back of the hand to the palm once more. On and on it would run, never once thinking that it was getting nowhere. It would stop once or twice, perhaps to contemplate the strangeness of its universe. Maybe it was just tired.

Yes, he and this spider had much to discuss. He could tell it who’s hand it was wasting its life on, and maybe the spider would tell him who’s hand he tread relentlessly upon.

He walked through the kitchen and out the garden door. There is a lilac bush of some repute that stands just off the walk, and he gently places the little one within the blossoms.

“This is my hand that has spared you this day,” he instructs. “Find your peace here in this place, for you are welcome in this garden. Live long and gain wisdom so that one day you may share your secrets with me.” Then the spider is gone and he was alone once more.

He absentmindedly tugs at his beard. It is longer now than it has ever been. She had told him that he resembles an English lord or a Russian count. He laughs when remembering her words. He does look like a count, indeed. But it is the “Count of Monte Cristo” before he made his escape from Château d'If that he must look like, with wild hair and scratchy beard. But also with very focused eyes.

He had never cared very much for personal appearance. It didn’t particularly matter to him what others had thought of his “style”. He could be clean cut and shaven or this unkempt wooly beast that was now his visage. No matter, for he was the same as he had always been. Others had tried to change him over the years of his life, but to no avail. He, in his deepest parts, had always been as he would always be. And it was not sin. No, it was not.

The day was pleasant. The sun shone down on his face and he was glad. It had been a hard winter for him in another place, but here there was warmth and light and life. Here was all he needed, and all he needed was clarity of thought.

He had often wondered why it was that people felt compelled to cling to each other, to things, to nothing. To fill their minds with noise and chaos. She had casually written something to him once, in the days before this place, while explaining her heart-song to him. She had written “Omnia Mea Mecum Porto” It was life changing for him! He had forgotten or ignored those words from his youth, but upon hearing them again, at this point in his travels, he was crushed under their weight! But once he finally accepted the full truth of those words, they were very surprisingly light in their burden. Daily now, they walk with him through days that are hard.

For he who dwells here in this place also dwells there in that other one, but is kept hidden and cowled and is afraid to step into the sunlight.

But the cracks are now widening, and flaws in the masks are beginning to show. Soon, the true would burn through the false.