The mountain beyond that pass has no name. It is too old for us to name it. The sea has the same colour as the sky but the mountain has the same colour as sand. Sand is not earth but a fluid shoreline that leads to the great cities. When we are tired we buy up land on the edges of the great cities so we can sit and watch the insomniac journey of sand. Its slow exodus across the horizon teaches us how to prepare for sleep. When flowers open on a day filled with sand all the water in the world will not quench their thirst.
I send words to you from so far off aiming to shape you towards the exquisite openness of love, but over and over I collapse in the effort to invent a life. Walking on sand has taught me I can no longer count on making it to any shore. Your eyes as I imagine them I will go on kissing gently and sheltering beneath. It may be that simply wishing you such tenderness will help you wake one day calmer, more deeply held by the world’s alignment, ready to find another and love. We cannot name sandgrains or some mountains but perhaps they can name us.
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