Silence in the Pure Land | (poem)
In youth we're given all this time to think.
Really, to think.
To find the place behind our eyes, to raise a house and live in it. But we choose to be nomads, to float from place to place. We hitchhike and train-hop, but here we find ourselves looking out of a window of a train as it moves through a tunnel. Little by little, then all at once, We have returned! Yet quick to escape, for the train will soon emerge from the tunnel. The oppressive light of the newfound view fills the train, and it is unbearable. The view — however breathtaking — sets us back in motion, and the worst crime of all, it deprives our eyes of deprivation.
It's easy to get lost in memories of childhood, where we imagine the truest nomads, limited only by time. Our life starting soon, inevitably. Here, as well, you find yourself at the motionless peak of a swing-set. Your weight replaced with the upmost Grace. But please, don't worry, the swing is quick to fall from its peak.
This is our greatest gift and our greatest silence. It is where we can always return to, but never live in.
I wish for nothing more.