Ime no ai wa
Kurushiku ari keri
Te nimo hureneba.* - Otomo No Yakamochi
There is a bitterness of the soul that cannot be meliorated with the balm of Gilead.
No nepenthe can soothe its pain; no instrument can stitch its wound.
It is forever facing backward, below the heath, above the sea.
This is the turmoil; this is the confusion; this is the feeling of loss.
He could never delineate the moment when reality and illusion blurred into one.
He could never gauge the initial reaction of the action fused with the Self.
He could only deal in the concrete and in absolutes.
Abstractions, to him, were a failure of the mind.
His dreams were the preamble to a thought, a prologue to an end.
In his dreams he did not escape reality, he became it.
He was conscious of Self, of space and of time, yet he transcended them all.
He was Infinite, yet he was Finite.
His dreams allotted a false sense of power and control.
Yet, mercifully, they also mollified him with a milieu of clemency.
Here he was truly the master of his domain.
Here he meted out punishments and rewards.
His castigation of Self could only be found in his dreams.
His salvation was here too, offered by the last person he would ever ask.
It was in her he sought forgiveness.
And it was in her he fathomed piety.
She, in turn, only represented a lingering thought, a flickering moment of hope.
She was never given true form or shape.
She was the essence of light, of unbridled emotions.
She was his kibou no hikari.*
It was in this remnant of a fragment of a feeling in which he found her.
She was hidden in the very recesses of his soul's depths.
She shone out of a niche he had long thought abandoned, long thought forsaken.
There she would wait for him, and to her he would always go.
But the waking to reality proves too wanting.
The disillusionment closes in so fast that he cannot breathe.
The mind slowly registers the subterfuge.
The heart's rhythm slows down; bile rises to the throat.
He shakes his head, disturbing the cobwebs of his meditations.
Reality quickly sinks in and the vestiges of the dream begin to fade.
But the nascent feelings will never wane.
If only, they will linger as her image imprints on his soul.
Better never to have met you
In my dream
Than to wake and reach
For hands that are not there.*
*Yume – Japanese for dream
*Kibou no hikari – Japanese for light of hope