Between the doctor and the patient, there is a void; a chasm of the unknown, territories of wild terrain, fertile for a relationship to grow, to nurture and become a healing.
The healing. The healing comes as an ending; a termination of the settlement of the pain identified by the bearer being recognised by the observer.
Yet, for some time, I have wondered where our stories begin. We seem to only ever bear and witness glimpses of our word’s shadows. We feel our times in our birth and our death, yet we forgive the passing of our lives for the stories we gather.
Do we ever present our own stories? Or, are we known, to others only, when we end?
I feel stories through the way I find them. Their landscapes, I explore.
I found a story.
The narrative rained down, floating towards my surrounding space. The mystery was always there but this time it was apart from its creator, and enticing; a trance calling to listen and decipher.
I saw the gown; of hues screaming against the sandy backdrop of the desert; of the pasture trodden bare by travelling voices. There was a crying; a cowered colourless tear. I searched through, seeing beyond the droplets into a dark ocean. My hands sifted through, until I found her own searching; a searching for her sky.
Are there words that cannot be healed ?
Why was she hiding from the sky ? Did she become the ground when the land still held the life in her heart ?
How can I hear her ? Is she calling, or falling ?
The sun was hurt; paining from the soul whom wanders too far. Her body became a land without form. Her story was no longer a place.
Where was her death ? Did she become her land now – I made myself who I am because of my virtues and my virtues are from my land.
When she touched the soil, was she buried by peace ?
I only saw her. I saw her distance. She had carried far; afar from those whom wandered.
Her spirit burned.
I only saw her. I saw her star. She had fallen to the above; falling beyond those whom rose with the horizons.
Then, then I ask, who is she; who is she that transformed the land; the sky; the desert; the ocean ?
We still see her everywhere.
She is the connection to the finality; the ending of whom we are.
Our stories begin when we start to hold them; our cradles of creation.
And their endings? Their endings are the transparency we feel when the tales we told are no longer inside us, but somewhere else.
Our stories surrender under our sky, upon our lands.
To be held by another, in completeness; the beginning and the ending.