A rough translation

Something speaks to me, and I'm just now learning to listen.

I understand only a syllable per attention-moment, but it's kind enough to repeat itself, patient enough to do so as many times as I will need. Here's a rough translation of what I've heard so far:

Child, when you were born, I dropped a luminous thread into my little void.

You, that thread, call that thread body.

You call it mind.

You call it spirit.

Your names.

And you fell, and you're still falling, and the others have always been there too, somewhere, and it elates me to watch you all tangle in the wind, raft together, unanchored at the edges, and catch one another.

You know you all are all there is, don't you?

You collide.

Your fibers embrace for a time.

And for a time, you forget that you called that that and this this, and now you can't remember what that was without you.

And you without it.

And then the winds will tear you from each other, and you will restore the two of you to names.

But it will leave wisps of itself wrapped up in you, and you will leave precisely as many in return.

So you see why I don't use your names.

They come home to places different from those they left, but they settle in again anyway, and this is forgetting.

On occasion you forget to forget, and you have no choice but to remember that you are all that visited you, that you loved, that hurt you, that sustained, ignored, and surrounded you.

This is my favorite part.

So do you see why I must drop you, cast you from me?

Please believe: If only I knew how to convene your uniqueness myself, to outweave time and wind, I would, and I would cradle you, pristine, in my palm until time made dust of us both.