With my own eyes

I want to write something beautiful for you to read, that will be like entering a meadow on a sunny day after walking through a dark, cold forest. I want to show your breath in the cold, crystal in the air. And want you to feel the thunderstorms in your bones, and the rain wetting your nostrils. But I don’t know where you are in that forest. I don’t know which part you’re in, only that we’re both there somewhere, and so I can’t tell you which way to go. All I can do is yell very loud and hope you’ll hear me. But I don’t think it’s enough to yell about myself, about the spot that I am in in the forest, because you’re not there, so what good does it do you? And besides, it’s dark in the forest, and we can’t see very well. So what good does it do to know what someone else can’t see when you can’t see either? Well, maybe a little, but only when talking about what’s dark is counterpart to talking about what’s light. So I should just yell, “Hey, somewhere there’s a big sunny meadow. Go find it. And when you get there, shout back at me, so I can follow your voice there, and be with you, and see your face.”