so i write you stories from a place called california and i sign them all with the year that i was born. and you read them and tell me you don’t see. you read them and you tell me you don’t see a thing at all. that my prose is so dense that at times it doesn’t speak. that it might as well be written in a language lost to the ages. that it might as well be words of wisdom dripping from the ageless. a monolith to meditate upon. no hint of a door. no hope in you that one will appear. but a longing still. a longing to draw near. and you wait. and time passes. and your ignorance does not turn to bliss. and the weight of it bears down on you. and it’s as heavy as the centuries and as vast as the void of maria.
oh love, when will your eyes be healed and you see with all your heart and mind. the glorious light that is the presence of God. who waits for you at the bottom of the stairs so that in his arms you may ascend.
