2000-12-12 - 23:33:20
Wordless

Wordless

Words are squelched, stopped-up. I am not fucked up; it's just that Numb ascends over Supple today. Anaesthesia of the heart. Won't last long.

I am sober and I am healthy and I am on the lip of some sort of magic. So, not to worry.

But words and stories and engagement: temporarily unavailable, out of reach. Please stand by. Please do not adjust your set.

So instead I read words I wish I'd written, a poem that speaks to my silent, recharging insides.

Revelation Must Be Terrible

by David Whyte


Revelation must be
terrible with no time left
to say goodbye.

Imagine that moment
staring at the still waters
with only the brief tremor

of your body to say
you are leaving everything
and everyone you know behind.

Being far from home is hard, but you know,
at least we are exiled together.
When you open your eyes to the world

you are on your own for
the first time. No one is
even interested in saving you now

and the world steps in
to test the calm fluidity of your body
from moment to moment

as if it believed you could join
its vibrant dance
of fire and calmness and final stillness.

As if you were meant to be exactly
where you are, as if
like the dark branch of a desert river

you could flow on without a speck
of guilt and everything
everywhere would still be just as it should be.

As if your place in the world mattered
and the world could
neither speak nor hear the fullness of

its own bitter and beautiful cry
without the deep well
of your body resonating in the echo.

Knowing that it takes only
that one, terrible
word to make the circle complete,

revelation must be terrible
knowing you can
never hide your voice again.

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