Someone speaks. Perhaps you dreamed it even
while falling asleep-that time which is also
a place, when you drift off, and see, before
your eyes, nothing at all. It becomes, after
a while, more difficult to know, yet ever
more familiar, and coming closer, always.
The blind say that sounds have shadows: always
a different kind of light beckoning, even
summoning—not only toward silence, whatever
that might grow to be, as it spreads—but also
into safety. Something which remains after
the darkness is swept away, the part before.
To remember what that was like, before
it began, before answering became always
what happened next, think of a time after
the journey, when each sound or murmur, even
a voice crying in the night, could also
be your own, reflecting back on whatever
rises, from nowhere, to greet you. However
intangible, something was there before,
waiting. Recognizing it is all so
easy, but answering is hard, it always
seems to fade, in widening circles. Even
when it returns, you cannot speak, after
noticing such silence. Animals, after
they gaze in our eyes—creatures who never
say anything-still understand, even
when we ourselves no longer care. Before
we were old enough to reason, we always
believed in magic-a cat who would also
whisper, only to us, its secrets. Also
forgotten now, that long-ago time, after
you put on your pajamas: someone always
read you a bedtime story. There was never
any regret that each tale ended before
it was over. Your breath came calm and even.
All so many go on dreaming. If no one ever
inquires after us, then what happened before
is always. What happens next–nothing, even.
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