Friday, June 10, 2011

The joy of death


That Quick

A lover looks at creekwater and wants to be
that quick to fall, to kneel, then all
the way down in full prostration.

A lover wants to die of his love
like a man with dropsy
who knows that water will kill him,
but he can't deny his thirst.

A lover loves death. Spill your jug
in the river! Your shame and fear
are like layers covering coldness.

Throw them off, and rush naked
into the joy of death.  

- Rumi

The fiction is that there is someone here writing, a breath I can control, a mind feeding me words. The truth is that I drowned two days ago, so thirsty for You that I sought the riptide and went under, spiraling to my death in an ecstatic underwater ballet that I'd spent my life rehearsing. I was clinging to You while letting go of You, my life raft and my anchor, upside-down with longing as my body emptied of resistance, undulated with the waves, and went limp.

I had been begging for You to kill me. Orchestrating my own annihilation. I handed You the instruments, the weapons, the arsenal - pleading in code for my demise. Please relieve me of me. Release my spirit. Be my undoing.

I have now only the lightest veil of innocence to cover me. I carry this sheath only to house Your desire. There are footprints scattered in every direction, and they all lead back to You. And You are at the cliff, the waterfront, the opening, the void. If this is a trick, then I am tricked. If there is ground, then I will crash. But if there isn't...if I am tossed and turned in the waves, filled and emptied and filled again, if I am lifted and lowered with the rise and fall of Your breath which breathes me, so that I may never misbelieve again in my own illusion...

I am the ooh and the ahhh of freedom.

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