Sometimes, truth comes in blows. A nasty wind blowing east, a blow to the head, the truth will knock you down and you’ll long to fight it, but you cannot because it holds no physical state. It already came upon you and has sunk back among everything else in the river. It will return again, from time to time.

Shane’s cruelty was revealed by a river once. We sat in the dirt, mangling each other with our company, and I asked for more from him than he could give. “I’ve done some awful things in my life,” he said. “And I am due to pay.” This was his response to my question of love. I felt struck, but I couldn’t see my assailant. I looked to the river, heard a melody coming from under the strong blue water. The music of survival dribbled up from below, as though the fish were playing violins. Couldn’t he just go ahead and murder me here? Bag me up and throw me in? My dramatic inclinations were sorrowful, but ironically so full of life. In yet another point of time, Shane would be a joke.

For after all this was simply one tough section in the many points of time. In this section, watching Shane walk through a ritzy hotel in a tux, his watch glimmering as it peeked out upon his wrist, was the most incredible thing I had ever witnessed. Watching him walk away seemed so tremendously sexy. One day, that same sight would bring only relief. None of this mattered, it could all blend together and circle back without me ever knowing it. The bankless river understands no end or no straight line, and carries us in its neverending waters. Blue everywhere.

Perhaps I should take a trip to Africa, discover nature’s raw power as so many do, walk the grounds and receive another blow to the head. It could be nice. I will remember it later and know I still exist there, in some section of time, the music still roaring gorgeously.

The title here is taken from the name of a Chagall painting.

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