On hearing that Gogol burned his masterpiece
The horror of the moment when the wind scatters the papers of a lifetime’s work over the morning tide. The table summersaults across the sand. Above me, the kites fly away like loosened veils.
In a dream last night I saw the spiked gates of a city containing all cities of all times, and beyond it the landscape of all landscapes.
I stop running and breathe.
Joy of the abandoned oar.
Joy of the endless journey in time. Joy of knowing that each time is a side of time’s prism, and each time the place where all time begins and ends; that this tide itself is the journey, this morning the waking city.
Somewhere up there: the city of souls in perpetual surrender. City of the waking dream. City of the ancient tide and breathless moments. City of whirlwinds and the breathless centre. City of wind and light. Loss and gratitude. Death and birth.
City of joy.
