The True Meaning of Horizons

this room, surrounded by the detritus of trying. life makes its way in stillness. a valley buried in silt, a womb flooded in heartbeat. this is still where you must live. and trying leads to more loss and less determined destinations. roads wave in and around your central point, your magnetic and true north, your magnetic field of flow; roads turn and tumble in mountain dusk, and take away sounds, ideas, metaphors, essays, work, love, lives, trees, simple things, complex thoughts, effort and lethargy. freeways stacked twelve high ring in the new year sky bold as cracking bells with the temerity to sign a name across a dusk-laden street. you always know what time it is. you never know what time is. when you grew you figured in absentia that time was no more than a thought, a thought to contain or constrain the body into which said thought was born and into which said thought decayed into lumps of wet sand, crashed up on beaches full of brilliant ideas, rooms full of expiring sediment. i want to crash and disappear, like a wave, to explode and glimmer and quietly pull back into myself, to reflect the sun without shame or limitation, to shed that light back onto a continent