Oh, the amount of trying. If we could carve each try in the wall, counting up from below zero, there wouldn’t be enough stone left to echo back to us to stop wanting to be somesheep we’re not, because all the grit would be on the ground. If one could pretend that to be an ash heep, it would be perfect to sit on. Sitting on high even.
‘You’, a voice said.
Sheep dreamt of versions of him that he had to leave behind once he woke up. All of him was nothing he set out to be. If molecules of tea pots manage to stay together, serving him the quenches to his thirsts, why couldn’t he do the same, being himself, serving others, or himself maybe? He couldn’t fall apart even if he wanted to. The wants had the same effects as the tries. They had left no stone unturned.
‘You are’, a voice said.
Sheep saw all of his senses talking over each other, as if nosheep bothered to put them all on different tracks on a mixer, so he could put the audio on mute from time to time, or put a dimmer on his visuals. His skin hurted, and he hoped that the past tense of the verb would catch on, because the world was due some refreshments in language. Could he pull the plug for the electricity, so he would be a day without input? That would be such a welcome holiday. Not leaving the house, nor the country, but to be on hold for a second or two. Not just the absent of visual, tactical or olfactory sounds rocking back and forth into his essence, into his presence, into his awareness, as if he was having his first sleep over at the beach near Litochoro, where Gods unrelentless ebb and flow, and eb, and flow, and eb.. eventually made him to just get up and leave, for he couldn’t sleep having God awake next to him.
‘You are made’, a voice said.
When sheep looked closer, he saw a specificity in emotion that lacked definition. The way foam heads find their origin in the end of water and the beginning of earth, so also he couldn’t grab what was going on. It was a whiff of expectation with a film of sadness on a bed of boldness, covered with a fear that he should have seen for what it actually was: a thing unknown. It was as if he had been given a spoon without knowing soup exists, so he carried the spoon in his winter coat, together with his tries and wants.
‘You are made in’, a voice said.
Would it matter, sheep thought, to look from afar or from aclose? The only thing that seemed to disappear where the freckles on the ground. He wished he had lashes or lids, to cover his eyes. When was the last time he hadn’t been awake? The voice filled his head more, and it started repeating itself, filling all the ladders of DNA he tried climbing. All of his cells were held together by the voice. Sheep had to let go, that was the only certain thing.
‘You are made in My’, a voice said.
Somehow the pronoun(c)ed capital sounded like golden thread sown into his tapestry. How was it possible to hear (in) capitals, sheep thought. And what was up with the four brackets all of a sudden? He remembered a poem that he learned by heart years ago.
“Alone, alone, all all alone,
alone on a wide wide sea.
And never a saint took pity,
on my soul in agony.”
‘You are made in My image’, a voice said.
Sheep gasped. Good thing he wasn’t in the water, otherwise he would have drowned, by expanding his lungs like this. He noticed a huge tree and sheep felt surprised by his own surprise that until now he never noticed it. Did he actually mute his visuals back then, way back? The tree sang, not only in the rustling of the leafs, but also in melody of birds that flowed freely from every branch. His gasping made way for awe. This is more than beautiful, sheep said.
‘No, you are’, He replied.