The way there is not

No, you don’t know the way here; there is no way here, not even an arrival.
There is only, and it’s too much, a chest; mine, at departure, enclosed here.

I wander, like a forest around lost steps. And I count uncountable, loose strands
of hair caught in branches that pant with the effort of being neither more nor less than accessories, in all, and in spite of all, intrinsic; yes, to the trees, as to all of which I couldn’t care less if it whispers or is clothed or denuded of leaves, above my brow.

No, I don’t know the way out of here; out of here, there is no way, not even a river. And yet, I run; I run inwards, more and more still. Staring; yes, my eyes like water, of the kind they always paint in the glades, with the impudence of all the daft, three-dimensional fantasies.

If they knew the way beyond here, they would know that, beyond, there are no dimensions; but, from here, there is no way. There is only, and it’s too little, a space to fill with whatever void may come to the mouth or to the fingers, deaf from pushing away too many colours far more brutish, in their unreality, than a chorus of achromatic squeals, returned by silences gone purple.

Do you get it? No; there is no way, here, where one trips over the clarity of all absences, and where any crossroads are but figures of speech, so out of order in the context that, once overcome, they both obliterate and solve themselves.

Irreversibly, at the end of the beginning of the way there is not.

-- © 2008 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®