Gentle raindrops cascade onto the road. A shape takes form as I sit and connect them in my mind. The idea grows and evolves before my eyes as if emerging from the earth. I'm curious and seek an endpoint, eager to know what will become of the image. However, I'm left with unanswered questions as the road surface becomes entirely obscured by the merging droplets, forming a single entity.
A bird sings, improvising, almost jazz-like, pulling rhythms and notes from distant places, exploring tones that arrive fluidly. Its melody blends effortlessly with the falling rain, creating a song that flows spontaneously. Its theme seamlessly intertwines with the rhythm of the rain shower, evoking a surreal experience that transports me into a dream-like state of reveries and longing.
I hadn't wanted to return to this trance state. But the dreams that arrive by night are a snarled mess I didn’t want to get tangled in. These meditations produce pictures from the place of the soul.
There are many. One recurring vision I grapple with is of two beings resting on a bed; one pillow - two heads - two faces looking questioningly and longingly at one another.
Each time I awake from this, I say into the universe, "Here is my opera,"
Yes, it was my opera. The bird is still speaking, saying something, jabber jabber blabber blabber of who knows what. I am listening and watching the rain, which I can no longer trace on the pavement.
The words I sang were without guilt. They were brazen and without shame.
I stripped to bare flesh. I trembled with pleasure and quivered as I sang out my words.
They held what I needed them to. They said what I needed them to. Was I singing, screaming, or yelling? I do not know.
I sounded different; the voice that returned was no longer hoarse but renewed. It rejoined me, and we sang together. From the endlessness, we were given new words, new words to sing our opera, and unique messages to understand and make sense of it.
The masses express joy and pleasure without shame or guilt; we give thanks for our new words. We stripped to bare bones, to the primary and elemental structures.
This was our opera; with our new word and phrase, this was our opera.
Our words would become a song, an endless song. It would contain just a few letters, but that is plenty; We have lost ourselves, drowned in syllables. We must become primitive.
We did just that.
We kept love and fear, for those are universal, and one unique word was given to each of us: one particular sound - our sound - our phrase. It was our secret tongue, our dialect. When we wanted or needed it, it would be there. Whether to shout or whisper, it was always there to express all that our mother tongue couldn’t, all that it lacked.
It was ours, between ourselves and no other, between me and I; it was there.