To J

J is about a dream, and like most dreams, is not real.  In it and through it, though, life flows, like a solitary wave dragging along its own path, its own glow, its meaning, its beginning and its end.
J is about that one I never really knew; yet I touched, smelled, and felt. J showed me how it would have been, could have been.  How happiness can be real, attainable, precious, and yet remain precarious.  And how a woman can embody all this and more - and remain a dream.
J resides in and helps weave every man's fears and dreams.  J defines his limits and extends his depths and heights. In the sand J draws his failures and successes. In a colorless world J gives him color.  In an endless sea of meaninglessness J gives him his own.
Like art J abstracts life, and in that way, is different things to different men.  To me, J is that measure of constancy when the immutable is no longer so.  A reassured but tenuous connectedness; like a full moon shining down on an endless cold desert gently lending it its faint light, connecting with it through its borrowed warmth of distant and powerful others, again and again.  The passage of time seems to add regularity each time, without a little less monotony;  each time is more intense than the last, more precious and more entropic.
Intensely personal and stubborn, J came out gushing out of a wound, like the warm waters of a desert spring; quick to ascend into ether.  Between it and its mirage lies its essence.  Its kairos visible but distant like the light of a dead star,  a dead beginning.
The dream was not even mine.  The borrowed happiness, once free will always find its way home, and it seems it has.