Friday, December 11, 2015
A curious phrase. Am I recursively looking at myself looking at myself?
What is the medium of reflection? Is it the redolent old temple, aspiring to the sleep of nothingness. Is it that night—hot with moon and mosquitos?
For a moment I watched your fitful naked sleep, then turned to look out over the water.
We would never last. I knew this because in the morning, the ruined temple would not be the same. The ripples on the water, the angle of the moon—all different when you awoke before me and became a ghost.
And from this long journey, I return. I am not alone because there is always someone else in the reflection.