Poetry: 1 Poem by Christina Murphy
A Torus Meditation
It wasn’t exactly a map, but it was a beginning. Oh, to be non-orientable like a Klein bottle and look beyond the markers of space and place and ever-equitable time. Oh, to be aloft in air that was thinner than vapor and did not make any heart break. From a distance to see that clouds formed horizons within horizons and there is a mirror within stars that reflects lost ambitions turned to longings like so many encrustations on a symbiotic plane of one dimension longing for another dimension.
So we wander here, inside the outside that once was our purpose. So we seek here, speak here, of something less than wholeness. The echoes are abundant and less than a cacophony. No stage can encompass the many acts that make up a life’s performances. Never can the edges be found for the amorphous sense of being. Never the moment within a moment that knows a soul is recast from the gold and lead of Eros’ arrows into malleable hearts. Wandering within / along a non-orientable surface, boundaries are an illusion and the frame does not exist upon which so many assumptions can be hung with the confidence that life is everlasting. An anchor ring without an axis, a hole in the space that surrounds beliefs with prisms of shadow light and dark resolves.
It is a grave to be without boundaries and inwardly folding throughout all time. It is a grace of space to encompass the pairwise inner and outer as but brief moments held in a pose of stillness and action. One is to one as two knows not. Whatever is found is the single dimension, the plane upon which all else rests and awaits in a harmony of continuity. Longing is foundational and is inverse to itself—the note struck when the unreal enfolds the real and only an echo is heard to fade away into stillness. Variations on a theme, all of it less than false and pointing to an undertow or the claws of an insatiable beast. Everyone there knows this but me, so I stand alone with my disappointment too much like a sunset to care about the emptiness of another eventual night.