The Empire of Nowhere

I remember being a boy, a very young boy. From a young age, in times of doubt—often before I went to sleep at the day's end, feeling both the love and the emptiness of the day—I remember the tenancy of that moment and its note, the sound unseen, but only through the haze of squinting eyes.

Shall we begin?

The dots of darkness, the unforeseen, the immutable dimensions of distance between the light and the otherness are neither dark nor light; they are merely juxtaposed. They belong to the narrowness of the gaze of the beholder, neither past nor present—it’s the fuzziness of now.

It’s a life loved, lived in sacrifice, begetting nothing by nature, for within her touch is care, a nod, the quickening.

So, I’m here, waiting for your return, breathing without desire, but just for that. But unlike yourself, my desire strains—it stays with the unknown—whereas you prefer the definitive.

I guess that’s why we like each other, sharing custody of cultural milieu and dissonance, equanimity and despair. Of loves brought to a higher empire where neither kings nor queens exist, but the higher self that presides over time, space, and life itself.