The Symbol & the Real

In the dim hours before the day could decide what it wished to be, when the world still hovered between promise and withdrawal, there moved two presences along the same unfolding path. One was the Real, though it bore no name of its own choosing, for it had endured without witness and learned the cost of being known. It moved with grave attentiveness, as ancient things do, placing its weight carefully upon the earth, breathing in time with the quiet negotiations of air and light. It did not hurry, nor did it linger, but received each moment as it arrived and released it when it passed. The other was the Symbol, and it named itself endlessly. Around it gathered meanings like garments layered for a colder season than ever came, plans unfolding before its feet could reach them, its futures continuously rehearsed until they lost all warmth. It moved not from where it stood but from where it imagined itself soon to be, and so its steps were always slightly misplaced, its balance always a little unsure. Though the Real and the Symbol shared the same ground and the same pale morning light touched them both, they did not inhabit the same time, and this difference, quiet and unquestioned, governed all.