Sometimes the inevitability of something gives it more weight than it deserves, and perhaps that's why I write stories to take my mind off of it...
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay
“The grave beneath my feet if lost sometimes in translation nevertheless finds its way into my dreams to haunt me with its inevitability.
And the sky so huge above me with its infinite possibilities presses down some transcript of something so big I am left breathless in its mystery.
Between the two my existence is a scarecrow dance where one moment I am on my toes and the next I am on my head, and mostly I find no difference between them.
Am I to be deceived then by one or the other of what must befall me?
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of some other dance and I would join it, but when I go to it, it is gone; leaving me to carry on in this soup of stuff with a longing I can’t explain nor define. And I catch myself looking neither up or down so as not to slip.
But I would exchange all the steampunk designs for just one moment where my heart is filled in the company of the divine,” said the tin man floating about in the ether.
“Time to turn over now.”
“So soon?”
“Yes it’s time for your injection.”
Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay
TENFOLD TO THE DOZEN
“In the closed circuit loop of the mind where that undignified pause between things to uphold beliefs not real is held uppermost to be stuck in, a parcel was delivered going tenfold to the dozen down the road that led to the inner realms and because it was going so fast it didn’t stop to be opened but carried on and ended up somewhere so deep an inner light came on to illuminate it.
“Oh thank god,” said the parcel and broke open a beer to celebrate.
“Dinner will be served at six,” said the head chef clapping his hands for attention. And taking out his spoon to stir the soup the night’s celebrations began, and a jolly good time they all had of it too what with the this and the that and the other, even the cat had a bowl of milk.
In the morning everyone went home to bed leaving the parcel on the shelf to be opened one day when the time was right and there was someone home; but more about that later, for now children, it is time for us all to disappear with a bedtime tale,” said this part of the story yawning.
Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay
MORNINGS
And then the mornings come, one after the other where the waking up is done in the sun that shadows through everything and begins to boil you up until by the third coffee you’re cooked and ready for another shower with the fan turned on full.
And after, if the momentum is not kept up the dreaming will come and the whole day will be gone in it with nothing to write home about but who you met clandestinely in the cooler spaces of the heat where if your breath was taken away momentarily you can only speculate about its passing and returning and did it really mean anything. But I live in the shadows and the gloom, and nothing means anything there.
Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay
"I would be saved, beyond the carnival of all this, the ideas of wrong or right, the doubt where the fear creeps in, the self withdrawal and the pain.
Let me find my place then and all that would bring me alive and not be misperceived in the rain.
We came this way on the express train never looking back, but now we are in slow motion silently slipping home through the weeds of our misdirection of the ideas we perceived as brilliant where we were sent when we were high but now are in the electric come-down.
A ray of light here then to shed the darkness there for the further back from it you are the farther off it seems.
Bob this in the eye of the tarot to see what it brings, then sugar-up the plenty to have it that way.
I am not above falling down, it happens all the time.
A little five minutes now for the interlude: zzz," said the story being read.
NEWSFLASH:
Sinkholes all over the planet are opening up to let out the denizens of the deep from their over-crowded tenements that they have been relegated to for so long. And some of them are playing the piano for no reason at all...
CHAPTER THREE
"Is that someone calling me? Then let my breath be heard loud and clear because it’s mine and I am not afraid of it.
So to get out of the old clothes of ideas, and not to bury them too deep, but to let them go in a heavenly way as a wind that never was, or the diary of a sigh.
In flight, you can dream anything while you’re flying, but you’ll still be flying no matter how safe you can imagine yourself to be.
When you’re up there very high the only place you can go is down, whether you are an optimist or a pessimist, if you crash, you’ll burn.
So while you’re there, up there, you’re there, until you’re not there anymore and down on the ground safe.
When you’re on the ground you can dream anything you want to, but you’ll always be on the ground, no matter where you imagine yourself to be.
But up there, waking up at the controls of a plunging airplane going down fast, it doesn’t matter what you dream, or where you think you are, because you’ll be falling to the ground, up there, flying down," said the old dead pilot from his grave.
A cold hand rose up from out of the forever lock-down and wrote on its stone: “We are not amused.” And then it went back down again.
And somewhere far away in outer space there is a planet made entirely of gold, yes I said GOLD...
Images from Pixabay
Link to another story: https://busy.org/@wales/utopia-of-the-blue-moon-steemitbloggers-contest