Oh, how I yearn to journey.
To travel to that land unknown.
To be carried along on that sense of journey—of going somewhere, of never arriving.
And of returning from somewhere never been,
Only to start the exciting journey again.
But where is that foreign place—where is that province that only asks to be travelled to?
And where do I start?
Where is the road located?
Where is the map?
Where is the signpost?
How can I find my way without some guidance?
But there is no way.
There is no route.
There is no map.
There is no signpost.
There is no weary traveller sitting by the road, extending a claw-like pointing finger and drooping a heavy-lidded nod. No, he cannot direct me, nor can he waylay me with his tale.
The way is there always.
I am there always.
It is so close.
It is so close that it must be far and near at the same time.
Ridiculous!
How can that be?
What land is there that conflicts with the natural laws of place?
What place is there that quarrels with the way things are?
I do not know what land or place it is, but it calls me still.
It is a land that has no place.
It is contained within another—the foreign land of another.
Contained but not limited.
And close by—so close by.
Brought intimately close by the journey to another.
Discovered by the journey, the strange journey into the heart of another.
To the land between myself and another.
The territory—the road, the map, the guidance of a deceptive stranger—are figments.
It is what passes between myself and another—another and myself.
It is not a journey in space, but a journey in being.
Yes, the journey is that intimacy—that corresponding-ness, that familiarity with the unknown that gives unity and place to the going somewhere.
Oh, the yearning to travel to that place,
To move shyly and yet with outrageous confidence.
Yes, always to go somewhere, and somewhere closer.
The union dominates it all, provides it all.
Unity.
Unanimity.
Sharing the same feeling.
Empathy.
Harmony.
Knowing.
Understanding.
Guessing-and–knowing at the same time—the ultimate contradiction of belonging.
The state of knowing.
Realising knowing sometimes—sometimes.
Not saying—sometimes.
Not needing to say.
But sometimes hinting, indicating.
Always on the knowing edge of hope—always journeying.
And from that sometimes realising.
And being absorbed.
And disappearing into that absorption.
And all at the same time knowing self from the realisation of it all.
From realising the other and so realising myself.
From realising myself, and so realising the other.
Going on the journey.
Being on the journey.
Going.
Being.
And never arriving, but always starting again.
And returning, and starting and being absorbed by the infinity of it all.
Yes, the never-ending journeying infinity of it all.
And all of it in one continuous, blasting, encapsulating, and everlasting moment of knowing.
And the explosion is forever active—boiling, surging, swelling and heaving.
Not sitting and smiling.
But deliberate—deliberate and yet unsaid
A silent, speaking, noiseless explosion of identity.
And an over spilling trust in the noisy, silent realisation of being lost in love.
Oh, how I yearn to journey with you.
