It was a day like any other day, a book or poem is being written, squeezing the words in between the margins. Neat little columns, neither circumspect or remarkable. The main character is dressed in black and white, and with an eager pen misses the chirping insects and birds who toil in the background. If we want to get to the end of the book, then why don’t we just go there. With terminal velocity we escape the confines of the ordinary, only realizing later it was the ordinary that we sought.
But back on our figurative earth we bypass the road signs. The ones who insist that we yield to a certain direction. A joke happens when we understand that some of our directions revealed specks in our paint job or smudges on the canvas of our book. The humor is baked in an oven of metaphors that contradict one another. The yeast rises and the cake cools, a new batch without any frosting.
And just as we are about ready to publish, someone has eaten, the icing.
The prince of darkness and a highlighter pen. Marking his victims one through ten. Studying his quarry he chuckles and chortles, oh how he loves the mere mortals. The sun on hiatus in a full moon dark, which gave us our peculiar spark and gave our paths original names, in honor of men called errr. Peter and James.
His quarry are gathered, some of the best and the brightest, or so they think, he’s getting ready to show them and throw at them, even the proverbial sink. Pretty soon the ten became thousands… finally much more.
Pretty soon the gavel smashed and the room quivered in fear, why did our friend call us here? Why does this place has tall fiery gates and pictures of all their victims? Wait?
A sonorous laughter filled the great room, as the chandeliers began to shake and fill them with doom. Pretty soon it was all for themselves, as their allies wore signs and epitaphs from many wars.
The choir was assembled, not hastily though, it was time for the revenge of the primate doe. Fear coursed through body and their much troubled brains, is this what happens just before the holidays.
Now the penniless pauper with his nubile daughter look directly into the eyes of of.. new found doubt. The King’s crown looked a bit withered and dithered and the jewels now gone replaced with inscriptions. The writings now were in many languages but still just one, there was going to be no room for interpretation, no not one nor drinks of ale or the fattest of quails. This was their requiem for filling the jails.
The horny magistrate with his pointed tail, was giving them remorse with the whip of his tail. Suddenly they wanted to cry but none of that, they were going to eat envy with silent wails. All the former slaves laughed with glee and the sting of the whip could never cut so deep as the sting of a trapped conscience.
So bullies beware, an election or coop lasts for a few years only and then my fearful one, all is done and made right.
I often dreamed of moments like these, the innocent refrain of hearing my name called out affectionately and the peace that I knew that would be waiting home for me. The hearth was warm, the gentle flicker of flames danced hypnotically and assuringly. What was there to mourn? Right?
But life has a cunning way about it. It marches to it’s own cadence, summarily deciding on a whim whether a fall or fortune would be good or bad. In that case the seeming tranquility was cloaked in an aether of steadiness. Nothing to worry about or so it seemed.
However the pernicious dark clouds were soon gathering and my foothold upon a fissure. The subtle security in that moment vaporized and I fell like a rock feeling the passing of time into a new setting. It was like heaven without any of the soft nurturing clouds.
Settings once familiar had a certain oldness to them with mostly the same structure but without any soul. I looked upon the doorway to my mystery and the door was tightly locked. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my key, surely things were okay. But now even that didn’t fit. Why? Were the people that I saw across the street look-a-likes? Replicas with stone hearts? Did they conspire? Was I a stranger?
The windows outside were frosted over and the place looked abandoned, the leaves unraked and the smell of disuse permeated the surroundings. Even the birds looked like holograms in a 3-D movie.
Walking away from my moorings, I drifted like a lovelorn log out to sea.
Floyd, Times Are Changin 