From the Horn of Africa

Every time I think about telling you a story now my heart beats slower and time gets shaken up. In fact, the story itself is halted from my own self awareness. The same pitiful self awareness I wish you had when I started. I could chalk it up to the examined life but that would be it. Nothing else is similar. My love.
Who? Who is the love?
You. You know that.
I do? Who is you?
My lord.
And what is your lord made of?
Silence and love and history.
How do you know that?
Because it is written and because there is longing.
Longing for what?
For certainty (pause), or for more love.
And what does that look like?
I know what you are doing?
Oh yes? What am I doing?
You are answering before the question is even formed in that same proverbial way. You are telling the faith before it is realized.
Then why do you resist?
Do I? For want.
(silence)

The best view is from the summit of a snow filled valley on a very cold night. On those nights the heat of the blood reaches its high peak and we wait for the strong to pull through. The weak perish and the strong mourn the weak. The cold will take the waiting and the poor of health.
Why such bullshit prose? Why always with the damn death and him beget that shit. Your man-ness is not so important to others.
I see, then what?
Then what? You know, head to the grind stone. Don't ask. Travel, live, worry about the ones who need you.
What if no one needs me?
Then make someone or help the old you selfish prick.
I am. I do.
Then do, I am.
(sigh)
(silence)