Maps for Lost Letters

There is a compass.
Where is it, though?

Never mind.
Just hurry on.

A deep sigh.  – (There still isn’t enough air.)
An empty look.  -  (What is this supposed to be?)

Follow the lines on your palm and you will get there.

Where?

Where, indeed..

There is also a labyrinth. And pretty scratches on a paper. Shapes that are supposed to mean something. Old sticks and buried words. Vintage laughter, worn-out bags, the sound of still air.
There are a lot of things.

I hear someone knocking on the door.
But let’s just leave it.

Something green. A dustbin full of crumpled tissues. The ticking of a wristwatch. Long intervals between two nothings. Some unfinished speculations. A new name. Another knock on another door.
Yes, there are in fact a lot of things.

We’ve been there before. But let’s go there again.

When?

When, indeed..

Use them true, use them good

Let’s take all these broken promises and tarnished resolutions and pile them up. Into a mountain so huge it transcends oblivion itself. Throw everything within your direct reach into the expanding vastness of this tower threatening to kiss the very silk of the spread of blue above the orbs that house all evil and all good and all of everything and much of nothing.

It’s going to be a wildfire.

Spread the word.

 

Watch.
The beautiful arcs your dreams are forming as you make them fly against the course of possibility; and feed them to the tongues of orange that you are fanning with your very breath.

Hear.
That incessant hiss and crackle that emanates from the deep recesses of the burning malignancy’s center as it sucks the marrow out of your wishes which were cursed to a timeless existence of a deathless song.

Smell.
That rancid stench of decay as it morphs into charred remnants of seconds that race against their own selves while they try in vain to get away from memories that time does not erase.

Touch.
The sparkling particles of fairy dust that are whirling up in whorls of divine swirls, close enough for you to recognize them as the ashes that you have grown to call a part of your very being.

Taste.
Those unnamed flavors that arise when the very atoms in the air scream in horror at the show of immense madness wherein much of tragedy and more of comedy collide into supernovae of raw morsels and burnt entities.

Hold your head up high, square the definite jaw, grind your teeth, take turns sneering and scowling. And turn.

Behold the pathetic, beautiful, terrible mess.

Let your senses, benumbed as they are, feast on the havoc your existence is wreaking.