It happened without question. It is not just that fragility that does not stand, but with that certainty that is not even conscious of the fact that there are questions. Even some, now or later, or before, or at all. Unquestioning certainty, which awakens me and lets me rest in your arm or dream and be found for the first time.
It was as if the melody was rising, as scattered, still singled-out tones. Looking up, like living out or living in a dream, I looked into your eyes. Unrelated as the sounds and the wind that had blown me here. It was the wind, someone, from somewhere. Planless, aimless, distracting, just as he bore us, and the sounds. And just as the tones, which were not yet one, were gathered together, arranged, condensed, contiguous, and crowded, our arms were raised, found together, ordered, to keep their task accomplished. Each other and us. Without suggestion, without misunderstanding, only probation. Do not hold and behold, but be held and be. And the tones became melody and the stop a continuation in the melody.
It was unquestionable, when the melody was recognizable as such and as ours. We had never heard of it before, and we would never hear it again, and yet it was the one who always accompanied us, you and me, before, just, and now intertwined as if it had never been otherwise, never and nowhere, now or later or before or at all. But always and everywhere and a life. Melody and life, into one, like you and me, melody of life, like you of the I, life of the melody, like the I of the you, spun like the arms and the body and the movement. With the self-evidentness of that which is not self-evident.
It was unquestionable, with that seriousness which only the indeterminateness knows. It was safe, because there was nothing to consider, only the alertness to the dream into which you led me, into which I led you. In the dream of a waxing, into which I rocked you, into which you weigh me, while the melody intensified and took us without touching us. Through us went without wounding. As if there was a life without wound. As if there was a life in spite of the wound. We allowed ourselves to enter into that familiarity of the unrecognized, always and everywhere, now and then, and before and at some time.
It was unquestionable, with every step we were taking, in the connectedness, with us, with the melody that was simply there. Like the wind that carried us. Like the breath that flowed through us. Like the warmth we wove around us. Like the gentleness in which we embed. Like the tenderness that nourished us. It was and it is and it will be, even if it has never been and never is and never will be. So I can love you, as if it had always been and would always be. So that I will love you until the melody is scattered again, until the sounds are lost, and they are extinguished, the dance ends, and the wind carries us away, who knows where.