There are caves there where
I can rest without light
and radiant meadows
with room to expand
in every direction
They’re not real, of course.
Nor is the wasteland.
The glorious abyss.
Which is to say nothing
could be more real
than these inner landscapes
that always receive me,
whether I’m on a bus
or in line at the market
or lying in bed before dawn.
Sometimes I forget
the inner world is there. I start
believing only in the outer world.
How exhausting life is then.
But when I remember
to live through the gate
of intention, when I still,
it’s as if I am being breathed,
being lived. I’m out of the way.
Then everything is the way.
It may not always be pleasant.
It’s always exactly as it is.
There are no words there,
but look at me, trying anyway
to explain this nothing to do
and nowhere to go
and nothing to experience
which is everything.
I’m like a traveler trying to take
a dozen photos to represent
a whole country, only to discover
they’re all blank.
Like a child in a fairy tale
trying to leave a trail to get back,
only to have the crumbs
disappear.