The myth of the churning of the ocean — good and
evil battling for the nectar of immortality. Metaphor,
handbook, warning. On the walls of Angkor Wat, the
extraordinary comes alive. A confluence of art and
faith and the subtlety of being. A place of worship.
A place of submission. Of belief. Of hope. All that
is vulnerable inside us is on display. All that we are
capable of, surrendered to a greater abstraction.
At dawn, colours are smeared across the clouds
like a child’s finger painting, the temple inverted
in reflecting lily pools. I went with nothing to offer.
I left with more questions. What is a battle if it can
never be won? What is victory when all is already
lost? What is forever if time keeps spooling back
to a point of no return? Am I essentially good?
Which would make so many so unbearably bad?
If the mistakes were mine, why does this morning
curdle around me, spilling its secrets? Why does
this sky seem to say that if I have come to it now,
dragging my past like a painful phantom limb, then
it will let me be a child of its light. A place of belief.
A place of hope. The sun has moved higher. The night
has slipped away like an illicit lover. Everything is in its
rightful place. Every road, every wrong turn, every
unconscious move would still have led here. To this.