Frozen tree lacings
Facing north, aching finger tips,
Cold lips, forehead, thighs
Frozen ground, around the pond, still limpid, liquid,
light-filled
Flight of crow and call recall…
This is all an illusion.
This is all an illusion.
I can stumble, yearn, relearn the feelings
Each time
Of come and go,
Of resistance and flow,
Of clouded meaning, meandering down hill black water’s draw
I can fall in love over and over again.
This is all an illusion.
This is all an illusion.
I can writhe in belly pain, exult in petty gain,
Free myself over and over in the season’s waning
Light. Is there another word for flight?
We made it so hard, so freakin’, flippin’ hard,
We made it so real that to us it would feel like there was
nowhere else
But here.
This is all an illusion.
This is all an illusion.
But what we are when we are here, this is real.
What we are when we feel, this is real.
What we are here in all that we feel is real.
And the whole point of the game, the whole vast wheeling of
stars and Mars and Christians and Czars,
Is to have it be so hard that we can’t get out. We can’t.
And then we do.
(like Samuel Beckett’s immortal, “I cannot go on. I’ll go
on.”)
I fall in love with this kind of courage because it is what
this game is all about.
I fall in love with the game and with every single player of
the game and with the game’s design and designers; that’s you and me, bro’.
I fall in love with every nuance and with the grand
over-arching theme.
And this is all an illusion.
This is all an illusion.
You and I both know that humanity loves an underdog and
humanity loves the cliff-hanger story,
The sudden breakthrough at the end,
The - this is so screwed up that we can’t possibly make it -
scenario that
Becomes an all-triumphant finish line.
We love this, and we know
Somehow, even as we are embedded in the game, that
This is ultimately our story, our breakthrough, our
Finish line.
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