It started with an ink-black patch, this voyage of sorts, this peregrination. Such a minute gesture before all the wandering: the resting of the pen, the thirsty pulp soaking itself in blackness. A desert whose solar consciousness need not be erased nor eroded, but stained and scribbled upon.
Whenever whimsical storm winds brush the trees, the asphalt wakes up with an assortment of organic trinkets and jewels of various kinds. Today, I picked up a beautiful moss-covered chip of wood still humid from the midnight showers, its velvety shades of silver and green shimmering in all their glory under the morning sun.
(WAND.10) Chance meetings the day the dead are invited to walk the earth. Apparitions, ghosts I swear I’ve seen before. Or is this but a projection, my soul dressed up in pale green velvet stained with bleach —dewdrop tokens from the everyday? I doubt and say: No, a mirage hardly ever presents itself ornamented with such minuscule details.
On my hopeless chase —for I am the hunter and the hunted, or, should I admit my condition of a master shadow-chaser?— I lost myself in the woods, at its deepest and darkest, where no light dares to enter, thus rendering my proficiencies ineffective.
Yet, this shadow of mine has a shape. Catching but a glimpse of her —a female stag imbued with hierogamic glory— I became spellbound.
Dare you follow this silent road, as the underbrush of words closes behind you and no hope remains but to be lured ahead by the broken sentences of my aimless wandering.