Cut Quill

A Stair I See Not

Look I do, and sleep. But even sleep brings dreams I look upon. So, yes, I may close my eyes, but they remain as open as ever they were. As visions drop before me, I take them in, as one, or one by one.

What I see, I know, and what I suppose, I see. So hopes and more all take legs and arms and form. Now what may not be — what can not be — is.

And suddenly I am scraping, pulling my way up an endless — lidless and floorless — abyss. The holes that open for me in the adamant cliff are full of all stings and bites and grabs, but I must go on. So I plunge my hand within each hole, to find nought but dust contained. I pass the marks and colors of the rock again and again. And still upwards to mist, and out of the fog, but amongst the cloud, I rise.

I am no longer climbing. My fingers, wrists, arms no longer ache from the strain, but hang welcomed in the air. I am falling, but falling with just the deliberation of climbing. And now, towards the fog and fleeing the mist, and still with the clouds, I am steadily working downward.

Now a stair, but so faint as to not even be felt, nor seen slightly. And now down this trailing stair I tread, and now up. And betimes it is a walk, or a landing, and I walk forever ’till it is a stair again. This gossamar stair, crystal climb and fall, mounts hills and braves valleys, all so as not to be seen, among the fleeting clouds.

Fleeting, yes, but ever changeless, and always fixed. These clouds I see. . . they seem to be familiar. I see a cloud of doom, and a bright mound of joy, both move closer. And lo! The greater consumed the lesser, and the greater was doom. But the doom, made greater by joy, was also made brighter.

And the stair vanished beneath me, and the clouds and mist from about me, and all was black. I was falling once again, and then came another vision.