I wish you know that this is the particular pain
of remedial action, of knowing that I am part of no faction
other than that bound for the dreamyard, the place and city of scars
only known to Merlionsman or Dreamtiger or Dragon, and those they taught to part
the veil of tears, and to look deep within, beyond what they see. So far
beyond, in fact, that I am only allowed to believe
that infinity constitutes just two places, two great phases:
you, and me.
The Seed, and the Tree.
The Land and the Sea.
The other concepts really have no further currency.
Not when you stand this close
to the gate, to the harbour,
to everything that I am so absolutely frightened to admit, seems to me to be
iridescent.
A gleaming edge, a mighty pledge
by some unknown eldritch leader, to refute the steps
that lead to obliteration. That dance needlessly into entropy.
I sang of the body divine and electric;
now I sing of the heart, and mind, and soul of the windward destiny,
the pain, and the trauma, and the abomination
of being so absolutely free.
We are the same, and yet are so different:
I made a choice that to me, was always the right one,
because I was able to learn how to dream.
I made the choice that allowed myself to be absolutely and mercilessly and courageously observed, and categorised, and dissected, and memorialised:
a choice that allowed me to finally be seen.