There is something in front of you.
And it is lit.
Let your eyes close.
And let it be there when they close.
Dear.
Every line of it plain.
You know this thing.
Whatever it is.
But it come as itself.
You have looked at it a long time.
Longer than you have looked at most things you actually have.
Breathe in.
Let it out slow.
And let the rest of the place settle in behind the thing while it goes.
Again.
It is close.
That is what you feel first close enough.
That it seems like nothing to cross the last of the way and put your hand on it.
So you go to touch it.
And your hand stops.
There is glass.
A pain of it.
Clean and cold.
Between you and the thing.
You never saw it.
That is what glass is for.
It hands you everything on the far side.
And keeps its own edge hidden.
You find it only when you go out to put your hand through.
Feel it under your palm now.
The cold.
Of flat.
Now handle.
No seam.
No giving it anywhere.
It is not a door.
It was never going to be a door.
Look through it again.
Nothing has changed on the other side.
Still there.
Still lit.
Still plain.
The glass doesn't dim it.
If anything it holds it brighter.
Sealed and clean.
And exactly how to reach.
You can see it.
That was never the trouble.
You have always been able to see it.
Notice how you are standing.
Close to the glass.
As close as it lets you.
Your forehead nearly on it.
Maybe.
The way you get to a thing,
You want to be nearer to it than you can.
You have stood like this a long time.
Longer than you would say out loud.
Long enough that the standing here.
Has its own comfort in it now.
Warned,
And familiar.
The way any place gets when you have kept it.
And this is what the watching does.
As long as you are at the glass.
It is right there.
A hands-width off.
You have not lost it.
You can see it anytime you look.
And you look all the time.
Step back and it goes small.
Step back far enough and the glass catches the light.
And you can't see through it at all.
Back away and you would have to know it's gone.
So you don't step back.
You stay at the pain,
Where it's still yours to see.
Where nothing has to be over.
This is the trade you have been making.
Without ever saying so.
You do not get to hold it.
And you do not have to lose it either.
You get to keep watching.
And watching has felt like a kind of having.
Stay at the glass.
Do not step back yet.
Keep it in front of you,
Lit the way you always have.
One question.
Ask it into the glass.
Though,
So your breath thogs the cold of the pain.
What are you watching so you do not have to lose it?
Let the fog clear.
The glass doesn't answer.
It was never made to.
It does not open.
Not because you haven't leaned on it long enough.
Or wanted it right.
Or earn the far side.
It's glass.
It does the one thing glass does.
It shows you through.
And it holds.
No amount of your face against it turns it to air.
That is the hard part.
This is not a test you can pass.
There is nothing on your side of it left to do.
It is just a limit.
And it is real.
And it was real the whole time.
You were sure that if you stood here,
Well enough.
It would give.
So the whole thing stays where it is.
On its own side.
You do not get it by watching.
You were never going to.
And there is a cost you have not been counting.
Your face has been to this glass.
Your back has been to everything else.
There has been a place behind you all along.
You have had it at your back for years.
Unbook that.
While you kept the vigil here.
The watching kept the thing from being lost.
It also kept you here.
Both.
The same standing did both.
You do not have to stop wanting it.
Nothing here asks you to.
Leave it lit.
Leave it where it is.
On its side of the glass.
It stays.
What changes is only where your face is pointed.
Take your forehead off the cold of the pain.
And turn around.
Behind you is a room.
Your own.
It is not lit the way the thing was.
It is just a room.
The plain size of a room.
With your things in it.
And aware of your living on everything.
Ordinary.
And yours.
In the way the thing behind the glass was never going to be.
You don't carry anything out of the glass.
There's nothing to carry.
You just come back into the place.
I was always on this side.
And let it hold you.
The plain floor of it under you.
The air of the real place.
This side of any glass.
It holds you the way the lit thing never could.
It is here,
And it is yours,
And it was the whole time.
The glass is still there.
The thing is still behind it.
You know that now.
And you can stop pressing your face to it to keep it true.
When you're awake.
Is all the way back.
On this side.
Let your eyes open.
