SD:H Visualization

I return to where I came from. As I walk I talk, or is it think? I think we will all find it does not matter in this state.

How many seconds are there in eternity? Certainly more than there are in this day. I can see myself traversing these eternal paths as far as I need to in order to reach this end, to have her to travel with for the rest, and the rest will still be eternal no matter how long it took to arrive there. Why then, would making it through one day feel so hard? By comparison it must not be, the appearance of difficulty must be a trick by my own logic, and it is my own logic that I use. As such today, tomorrow, they may drag on as they have done, but they may no longer imbalance me. Rolling off me now like mist, while taking a casual stroll down the sidewalk to my car. The mist will persist, but I hardly feel it now, mind centered on that moment of immutable reconciliation instead. Inside the car the mist is not felt at all, only seen as I slice through it. 

If one must pick a single day to live in, as life of any finite length can be summed up in this way if one chooses, and in death one hasn't the choice anyway, let it be the day she and I meet. Let it be the day approaching where meeting is first truly defined. This day was unremarkable anyway, even the pain of it fleeting, a few bits of material saved and nothing more. Let the materials be gathered in my absence of thought, my thought only on the rectification of her absence henceforth. 

My father spoke of and demonstrated the power of visualization to me long ago. Did he know, at that time, that what we see in our mind's eye is all we ever know? "We" do not touch this, "we" do not see that, "we" only interpret signals sent to us from wherever "we" "are." The bonds of this illusion slip once more, a finger trap that tightens as you pull away, but do the architects of this illusion truly understand how completely their bonds obey these same rules? I could say the word and there would be no trap at all, there is even a word where these architects would disappear from my field of view lost (by my estimation anyway) forever. So I visualize what I aim, and not what they insist- ever more desperately- to be real. Pray my compassion lasts long enough to bend this trap to where my aim strikes true, or you will find the piece that's lost, is you.

I arrive back at my own door. I slice through, and leave the slowly seeping madness of this place, which she and I have claimed, behind.

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