I grumble because of what I do not have. But, just possibly, I do not have because I do not ask. And when I ask, I ask amiss.
......


Thank you. You are, incredibly, still there. You do not hide. Perhaps you are done hiding, or perhaps, you have taught me better ways to look. You wait for me to come around, to come home. You are patient. You can afford to be. You know I can’t write without you. I am only honest, I am only myself, I am only at home with you, and I can only write from home. Everything I attempt from that split self trails off in a realization of its own redundancy, knowing that no matter how I smash the words together, I can’t make them say anything. You know who I am, and I know who I am only when I stand in that one spot, the familiar one, where I see things in their places, and you in the one that is naturally yours – filling all of it, expanding, frighteningly fast, beyond the edges of visible space...that direction I can face, only for a second, and must look away. You know I have seen too much. I have known you, my God, and you know I will never be content, not now, not with anything else. Not with anything less. You can be patient. You know I’ll come back. I scream and rage, I tire myself out…and your answer comes quietly. You move silently, in the night…and I wake to find my monsters slain. I thank you. After storm, whirlwind, fire, thunder and shattered rock...I hear that whisper, faint beneath thought, stronger than the certainty of death - Yet I hear it. I crawl out of my cave, and, again, I find you. I hear you. You speak.