James woke up with pain everywhere. It felt like a flue pain, but then spiritual, felt physically. It was as if the pain from a dream got stuck to him, as a piece of chewing gum can cling to hair like there is no tomorrow. In this case, there was no tomorrow; there was only today. And he was stuck. It was hard to watch him, he thought he was in love, but didn’t know who with. It felt like he was being inflated from the inside out, and had no way of decompressing; the more he breathed out, the more full he got. It was painly pleasurable, but barely bearable. Again, it was hard to watch.

He remembered a letter mentioning the mispronounciation of the word lieve, and was invited to look at this all white wearing captivating scene from yet another sheep of view. Since eternity exists, you can actually repeat yourself in a past experience forever, he knew, and he regurgitated the words, the hugs, the sitting down. How was it even possible to be known only by written words and pictured frames? Was the person who invented the pause and rewind button actually a hero or a villain?

James heard the clicking of the pavement that was trodded upon, a path that lead up to a deepening of a reality that earlier he knew he’d rather digested as an illusion, just to keep his heart safe. But hugs don’t lie. Warmth is measurable. Words butterfly into your heart. There is no protection from that.  For the first time ever he knew that sheep can only be known layeredly. He was proudly boasting always that he could live with few regrets, but saying no to be stroked was one of them. But his fur hurt, as did his heart. Don’t touch, just embrace. And don’t ever let go.

Could he go back and retrace all the steps, as to delete them, by imprinting them on the ground with a different intention, a different sound, a different state of heart? Would he not only meet the other there, but himself as well, watching behind a looking glass that quaranteened his heart ever since he felt  it shatter? Would scents blow overseas if a hurricane was strong enough? Was that the reason he walked outside so often?

Can two sheep coincide with what comes from their mouths, like grieving tears on blotted paper which immediately immerse and burry themselves into the thinnest of papyrus God probably ever made? Was it a coincidence that the tears did the actually tearing up of the papers, adding to a second pile of regrets?

Great sheepness.. it was so painful to watch and we felt helpless for comfort. We needed seven hands and arms to hold all the pain James was hushing.

But then James spoke.
It’s not my pain Pota, he said, it’s yours.