wanna share this view with you

Part I

The things I lost were never truly mine;

The love I found is a lifetime’s fill.

With presence, I answer the finite;

I honor impermanence by letting it be seen.

Fear might rise, let the future come.

Yet in this moment,

Vast heaven and earth are held in a single breath;

And the wilderness of stars

Is inlaid in the depth of your gaze.

Still,

it all belongs to me.

Part II

After settling on this version, I realized the poem gives me strength. It reminds me to stand where I am: here, now, within the span of a breath. And yet, there are days when I feel strangely sad, because the poem seems to stand above my actual practice, as if it were a clarity I can admire but not consistently inhabit. I am not always the person in the poem. Not even close.

There is another sadness, quieter and colder. When I look at others, I sometimes feel a kind of loneliness that has nothing to do with my daily life. It feels like climbing to a high ridge: the mountains shrink beneath me; clouds and haze and sunlight spill in layers: vast, delicate, almost unbearably clean. I sit down on a rock at the edge of the world, and there is no one beside me. Not because I have no one in life, but because this place is rarely visited. It is a landscape that exists, almost as a divine accident, yet the air up here is thin.

And then I feel time: how the crossing of human paths is so often just randomness wearing the costume of fate. The past becomes like those locked rooms in Interstellar, sealed boxes in a higher dimension: real, existent, and yet unreachable from where I stand. I sense a rupture with reality. I look closely at the people and things in front of me and feel their trajectories sliding past mine, indifferent, self-contained, like scenes inside five-dimensional story-cubes. Some people were here, and then they weren’t. The world does not even pause to acknowledge the cut.

I also feel the rupture with meaning. I have written before about the difference between purpose and the sense of purpose, about the pain of peeling that „meaning-skin“ off when it had already fused to me. And yet the fracture returns anyway. Not as an idea, but as a sensation: the floor giving way, the narrative thinning, the familiar world suddenly sounding like a room after the music stops.

I hold a spark,and still feel at a loss,

grief in the dark.

Part III

This time, I picture it differently.

At the peak, thin air, wide sky, the girl doesn’t sit still with her spark pressed to her heart.

She stands, and she dances.

She answers the pull of the body. If the world rarely visits this height, then she will join the landscape herself, become part of the painting.

She lifts the spark and casts it upward.It was never hers to keep.And yet to have met it,even once,is enough for a lifetime.

She isn’t always this bold nor generious. Sometimes she is simply grieving.But even her grief moves:

The scalding tears at her eyelidsrun with the most unrestrained honesty,her dance’s truest memoir.