The space between the two may be infinite.
We believe in actors and actions. We assume cause and effect. We claim power for ourselves or our oppressors. Yet the question remains: do we exist at all?
Edges fade into centers as centers become new edges. We flail madly at the illusion of fixation. The tighter we hold to reality the less there is of it.
Is there a middle ground? Does a deviation from atmospheric pressure greater than the standard cause disappearance? Or must we travel infinitely far to see the nothing of which we are made?
Where is choice? From where does cause originate?
He was a towering hurricane. He entered my office in a glass cage. His strength was herculean. His will plate tectonic. His fingers were the size of baby's legs. His thumbs could drive nails through concrete. After fifty years he had learned how to not crush my hand when he shook it. I could tell it was still not easy for him.
The hammer driving him through the wall of life was the force that had conquered a continent. His ancestors were made of steel and they were the flames in which they had forged themselves.
His limp was epic. He only remained upright by bracing himself between his ancient past and the future of his nightmares.
The fog over his eyes only served to sharpen his vision. He could see through all but the most opaque of living beings. The years of childhood invalidity had offered him the opportunity to travel the inner landscape far and wide. There were few places he had not been. Few inner barriers he had not destroyed. His boulder like hands had been hewn as much by crashing through himself as by a lifetime spent raising steel girders.
Truly wise men are rare. It is in making an opponent of a man that we come to know him best. To love and respect him. Israel means, “To wrestle with God.” It is not through obedience to the great forces of nature that we merge with them but through opposing them. Through being ripped asunder by the hurricane we become it. It aches. It grinds. It brings us to our knees. It lays us low. Not on the ground but in it. Even as we beg for mercy we struggle wearily to our feet, living on strength that cannot be our own.
His son was on the quick road to death. There is nothing that tears a heart to pieces like the loss of a child, watching them slowly kill themselves. Did we hand down the verdict? Did we write the sentence? Did we swing the ax? We have to ask.
Abraham, the father of all our fathers would have done it for the god of his understanding, for the voices in his head, but for mercy at the moment of choice.
The anger of the man was so great that he tore down buildings with his bare hands. The son turned to drugs. He slept in gutters. He stole from family and strangers. The sadness of the father was so strong he nearly killed the son, the object of his lost love, his sadness. At the last moment, god spoke for mercy.
The father followed the son. Through ages of tears he reached into the emptiness, tethered only by the love of his wife, and grabbed the son he'd wanted to kill.
As often as Odin tries to exile Thor, as often as Thor rages against Odin, the seed is the tree and the tree is the seed.
The man left all he'd built for himself. He followed the boy until he caught him. As he moved from middle age towards his later years he cradled the son in ways he could not have before the mercy. They began again. Life is always coming to an end and beginning again.