It may seem scary, but sometimes you need to get close–up to understand.
This was a different type of day.
Prophecies will pass; as for waging tongues, they will cease; as for notorious knowledge, it will fade.
There were garments everywhere. Where did all this come from? I’ve not entered the Cave of Lost Children; these clothes all too large. At least up-side they have clothing. All I can make out are the elongated Boticelli figures looking as though crumpled at the bottom of a canvas. Sandro was certainly a frustrated fashion illustrator. I can’t tell who owns that arm, whose leg is sticking out over there, which has that unnaturally long neck. Eyes rape me. I divert more than stare, wanting to know just enough to ponder the questions. Shall I ask for a line-up? Would everyone begrudgingly amuse me? Not likely. Elbows and knees pointing up like Burma-shave signs, mimicking the way out. There are enough ruins and faded ghost signs here reminding them of the middle world above. Damn, I forgot the popcorn. Journeys are always a better movie with concessions, and not a stand in sight.
I’ve come searching for someone in particular. For some one specific. In the stream of consciousness the ‘I’ is the thing relevant. I really hate that. I; again.
For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will be pissed away.
Proactive is not working so to have a sit. Dropping into the fetal/futile position, I form the ‘O’ in hope, or in pOssibility. The hole for them to jump through and escape into.
Hoping the sought soul will recognize a hero and leap at the chance to be saved. Hoping goes nowhere. Returning empty handed is defeat, however, and I would never pick up again this quest. Empty handed doesn’t pay the Bill. Mute souls scatter by to ask questions for unidentified reasons. Not enough to pay a visit, just borrowing? Do I not look like a glimpse of news of the war overhead? A torn piece that fluttered down the small shaft. Yes, they are unaware I am a broken off bit of the thundering, catastrophic, never decisive conflict. From here the Megiddo playing above ground is a soft roar that rocks and comforts and pulls.
When I was a child, I spoke like a child; I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.
Strap onto my back and you can be recovered. Which soul dares?
Soul retrieval isn’t what it used to be. So many in the lost-to-be-found, so little time.
Go find yourselves. Ha! I should have worn that T-Shirt. I give you reasons when you ask for a yes-no.
I’m cold and dampish in this work. My garments wait, along with my power animal back at the entrance. Unless he has retreated. Perhaps humility is good for something.
Okay, someone steps up to the plate. ID is affirmed.
We see though a glass, darkly; the mirror dimly, but then face-to-face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully un/known.
Hey William, what ya got there? (Power animals can be annoying. If omniscient, why ask?)
What I came for. Have a look-see, no don’t look. I got it. Just lead the way.
Everyone’s thin neck has its own kilter.
Everyone has a unique point of view.
Soul retrieval has become soul searching. I guess it always has been.
So now? Faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the great test of these is love.