Not exactly a new direction, but a mental turning around. Okay, not so much a mental turning — as a looking past. Past options, those were long ago voided out by other reasons and decisions that were uncontrollable. Control suggests need or want. Good thing everything is not controllable. We’d each have bloody hands and be dragging around Santa bags full of dirty rags all of our lives. Who’d be friends with someone who sounds so familiar?
Why not grab hold of Durburiad? Every once in a while it comes looming by, which means it comes closer every day, even when it is leaving.
It comes by from another goldilocks zone, within spit distance … close enough for communication and trade. Boons.
I glide toward the meeting place, my feet dragging scooping up sludge into what grows like a snowball in front of me. Dodging and skipping along the street that seemed to have a theme of pot holes. I saw a stranger watching me from a nior shadow.
He gave me a nod, “Yes, watch out; plot holes.”
I meet up, join and follow others feeling the series of events, twist and blind turns currently eluding me. Noticing the writing on the walls, reading an interior dialogue on a one-way mirror. You know how your mind jumps to this hither and thither thing while you are in deep concentration with the other? Hypnologic hallucination, involves seeing or hearing things just as you fall asleep. This is that. If this is a severing with reality the break feels natural, though wondering how to decipher. No telling, not knowing.
It’s not the nightly happy phantoms charmed by a conducting Orpheus. This is an uncontrolled waking dream of comatose passing the pearly gates of how cliché.