True North

Here;

at the top of the broad world, there is only the recognizable and ragged sound of the wind, and the frozen panting of the woolly dogs. And there is the maddeningly consistent flurry of numbing snow. Here, where it is so full and wide, ripe with Night, with dark and moaning clouds-

This is,

True North. Where the molecules of wanderlust, the covalent bonding of polarity, of magnetism draws upon all points. Where the snow, is bred within embryonic darkness, as if the rest of the broad world had yet to be born, and was sobbing out with pain inside the stretching northern womb. Here all the points and lines, waves and rays of matter and mass are pulled in all the infinitesimally small compass points, so it feels that, if one were to stand here long enough, they would simply be pulled apart and spread out like the snow.

Here, the ice shifts until it forms great flat plains. They shift upwards and even here, until the foil and tin cry out in an electromagnetic chorus that this,

here,

is all. There can be nothing but Return. The snow can only melt, fall again. The earth can only hurtle towards day, and pass back, back until the broad night, once more.

*

I have come to the top of the world in hope to find wise mountains, the cleft of great, undiscovered hills in the heaving, howling darkness. I look about me now, and on, and on, until I cannot see any longer. There are no mountains. And I should not be surprised.

For geography cannot lie. It cannot hold and form and meld mountains to help birth expectations, nor can it stop the snow, or hold the world to a certain point, for more than a few moments. Geography cannot change, and I truly believe it would not, even if the opportunity presented itself. Not for me, not even for itself. It is only the flat shelves of the world spreading out like wide-mouthed capillaries from where I am standing, feeding the Directions, until the ice draws into color, and sea, and movement, and land.

My steps here remind me of crumbling statues.

I am thinking.

Through out the whole blink of human existence this place has howled quietly in the polarity of its constant snow, numbing night. This is True North. This is nothing for me or anyone else, but for the minuteness, the singular place of itself. This has always been for nothing, but for the magnetized sphere of its own existence.

And I am standing in the snow.

If the stars were apparent now, against the wealth of unseen snow clouds, then Polaris would Lord down, for once, in my sphere, at its true place in the broad sky.

And I do not think of the great struggle, to climb to the Great Real North. I do not think of any of my steps left behind among the plains of the ascending, orbited planet.

For it must hurt the snow to fall, for the ice to shift, grow, splinter. It must hurt the earth greatly to turn, and do nothing but. My struggle is small issue. And here, where the polarity is as tangible as the snow against my face, my effort must be so insignificant. I am nothing but the snow. I am moveable. I am simply a tinfoil point, feeling out the directions that lie beneath me.

And, suddenly, I am only thinking of-

(Finding the polarity about a man, a lonely man standing with his face to the open door. Letting the icy November rain cling to his russet hair. The electromagnetism of a gold ring, like some regicidal comet, hitting the stone floor. And how far North, how far until the polarity ceases, and is only the pull of the earth, instead of his. Is the top of the world far enough? Here in the hyphens of darkness and snow, the brightness of the banded comet is still quite blinding, disquieting, more so than the frigid cold. I can feel his polarity. I can feel his True North.)

It is so cold. Dark, and so cold.

*

So, now, there is nothing but South, but human history and stars. And the woolly dogs are restless. I suppose there is struggle for purpose, and that a moment of true and numbing polarity is worth all the frozen blood on the ice. It is not, now, about meaninglessness. It is about (him by the door, his grandiose and tragic and impossible polarity that pulls and pulls and pulls until I am shattered into more than cold, and more than tin and cardinal directions.) the endlessness of a simple summit, here

And the points of the aura borealis suddenly sweep the sky-

I turn. And head

South.