Waves

I.

After Everywhere I am Nothing.

Here is a house. Sand walls—skin flows horizontally through the cracked veins of a grainy surface, if I took these walls in between my thumb and forefinger and middle finger and pressed hard, it would crumble like dried, coarse flour. Countless waves washed up against it, the wind made a paper cut with a piece of seaweed. There's nothing to go back to. It's not a house and not sand, it's nothing now.

II.

I Want a Total and Violent Clearing.

This is my wish: that through all my memories of defeat, the wave of light might pass in a sudden clean cut with the vehement slice of a guillotine, as if a fan of gold cut through to a translucent emerald.

III.

Maze of My Mind.

I long for this—to stand in the rain and have it strip me deeper than down to the bones, until all twists and turns of mazes vanish. For waters to flood me, as if I stand gushed by waves rolling over me, fully immersed, able to breathe underwater.

IV.

As Nothing, Be Returned.

I listen, I morph my body with the water, with the swoosh of successive landings. Each wash is a clearing. It's an all-body sensation, the only one that consumes but is simple, in its sounds, coolness against my knee, and consistency. The maze in my mind becomes one with each swoosh and landing. Let it gently sweep past me—the nothing that I have become after everything—and leave me returned, bare, rushed up on as His royal child.