here are some words I can never tell you

< @ Shelf Lake, Yellowstone National Park, Tuesday morning. >

In the mountains I am most at home and blank. I don't come here to write the great American novel or to photograph or much of anything else. I come here to blank then to dream again. Not the type of dream that amounts to future life or children or career, cars or other absurd shit. To physically dream. The city sapped it out of me - no words, no dreams, nothing. Here in the elevations I hear voices and see ghosts and pulse with history which are all welcome things. High up after a day of strenuous work and load in a pinch from past traumas I talk to God but she is silent.
What is your prayer?
That's what I'd like to know.
What do you think it is?
This pain. The pain of my body.
And that's enough?
No.
Why not?
Because you are love. Is love pain?
Silence.
(silence)
< end >

I look to my love
Here are some words I can never tell you.
I can not tell you that I get what I ask for, I do.
I can not tell you your love, my love.
I can not say that the beach is a sand pit and I came down to you for it.
I can not send light from above.
I ask for hope and you open the ocean.
I can not ask you for more.
You ask for hope and I open the sea.
You may not ask for more.
But these words I can never tell you because they're in service of high Romanticism and essentially bullshit and you can never tell me more.