A new intensity

I can’t tell anyone else here about the fact I see you now. In my dreams, it’s you, and I remember you when I wake up. I can’t tell them that I see you in physical objects, and talk to you.

This is not possible. The physics of this place don’t allow it. We all have false memories of what we did before we came here, and I have been the one, so many thousands of times I have been the one to explain to new arrivals that they are mistaken about their previous job.

No, you didn’t drive an ambulance. Your best friend was not called Jazz. You collected these things on your way here. Your mind has the habit of looking for memories and so it serves you these falsehoods. You were not tall.

For certain, my hat that I remember wearing every day was not real. I never owned that hat.

But you, I remember you.

The saddest thing is that I think you could be here now, you may have experienced a moment when you needed to leave what you were doing. I hope it was a rush, like I imagine it was for me, a sudden freedom and a slow adventurous walk. I hope so.

Often, more and more often, these decisions are made quickly. There is a flash and you are running, not walking cautiously as I did, through the mist, through the hollow urban centres, the historic monuments that glisten and abstain from age. These ones now, they run and arrive with cuts on their feet, furious burning skin.

They are given immediately, more and more urgently, the blankets, bandages, food, welcome, dwelling, there is enough. Voices in chorus reassuring, that there is enough for everyone.

I run guided tours. We do trips to the monuments, to the wall, to the field, to the shop to walk around the aisles and also to the shop to stand outside in the light that cuts a golden square onto the grass at night, to the place where we soaked the ground with that distilled product we called rum and made a fire of the soil, to the wall of languages, to give appreciation to the swans, and every face that looks to me, to hear the rules, to understand the history of this place, I look for one that could be yours.

The time I spend not telling anyone about this is taking its toll. Hours of tea drinking, of half-honest conversation, feel like years. I am with Abigail, I’m appreciating her loom that she built to weave the hair of halopeters into wearable things, and warm blankets. It’s a wonderful loom. The most beautiful sound it makes. The smoothness of the action. But I can’t enjoy it because I want to tell her that I see you. I see you.

I see you. It’s not a trick, I see you in the butter. I wish it was something else. The stars. The grain of a sombre tree, but it’s the butter. It’s the breakfast time, I see you and I talk to you. I remember how you would explain to me your day. I remember we would talk about the children, or about the state of the cat, slipping little messages of hope that the money will be alright into the talk about the cat or about the children or about the neighbours.

I mention it all to the butter. I eat my toast dry, or I hoof the jam straight on there. What a face to see! What a gift.

In the light before dawn, in the balk of the dead night, I imagine the way back. I imagine us all coming back.