Of the Essence

Wondering out of words, I think the broom takes precedence in the wold of enlightenment. Dust to dust to damnable hatred. Red is scintillating, breathtaking in its violence. Bodies breaking on the wall, falling--catch them! Diamonds on the water, it's winter, the snow is falling, like suffocation on the frozen earth. Why am I making sense? Come the darkness, tunnel vision, I'm blind and not blind, I see only what is before me. Periphery is closed to me, perception limited by my will. Unveil the horizon! Tear the curtain down! I pause unwillingly, if I let my thoughts fly at will they would never stop and I could make no sense of them, gain nothing. And if I pause I lose them all and gain nothing. Every pause is another turn of the mind down another path. I'm lost, lost in thought--always vague, always metaphor, by me only half-understood. Why am I not making sense? What is the most essential thing? Who could answer that question? Is it the most essential question?
I will ask it...

Clarity. Take the broom, sweep the dust, enlighten me. This mind is a room, this room is covered with disuse. Uncultivated. I cough when I enter it. The broom must take precedence, then the activity. Use. Production for use. Use for productivity. Hatred burns against what is not done, comes violently, beating anger and guilt into my heart, breaking me against my fears, my hesitancy. I'm losing time-- slipping through my fingers, precious time flying eternally past-- a swift river, yet not eternal. Winter slows every movement; time seems irrelevant when everything sleeps-- but everything sleeps in a prison, dormant, kept until it breaks again free, and spring seems to rush the world again. Time never stops, but it seems to sleep in winter. It feels like a respite from constant falling behind. Winter is my season. I like the feeling of protection, security, peace, patience, constancy, rest, deep silence. Like a reverent reverie, and walking under the stars at night finds a thrice crystal reflection in the earth, in the eyes, and in the soul. On the other hand, clear days are more painful with nothing to absorb the brilliance but the eyes. Back to my room. There is a locked desk, and a key in the corner, hidden by a cobweb hung with dust. No windows here, only the backs of tapestries showing French windows leading out into gardens or the sun rising behind Roman columns. In the center of the floor is a small door with a rusted hinge. I know behind the door is brown darkness with a ladder that leads down, down into black darkness in another room with two windows that scarcely open without a thick multicolored filter to distort anything that might escape and shape it into a safer misrepresentation, for the protection of the deepest chamber. But other windows exist...what is generated in this room, coming up from the deepest chamber, is sent out through strange, dark passages between the walls, and words fall, squeezed through suffocation, from hesitant lips, and words fly, spurred by desperation, from eager fingers. It is fervor and fever. It is must and would. I am helpless and hungry. I am hollow. I am hopeful. I am Halle.