It's like a hospital stay although no
friends or lovers come to visit you
except an older lady who works with your mom, or one of her
younger
sidekicks feeling a tug of obligation to see how you're
doing, like one of
those gas station hellos, "have a safe trip, Happy
Motoring!"
It's a gig with oven music, wires heating, grinding all
their resolution
of forces beyond the stress of breaking. If life is all
shock and trauma
you'd be like a hot plate on overload, a unit under test (uut).
My best friend calls it the "big nothin" where you work to
bridge the gap
and get the job done, but no real satisfaction, not even a
cool horse ride
into the sunset, just doin the do, chewin the chew, tedious
journey thru.
A mystical oriental compass lists the gorge as a place
everyone visits,
but staying there would risk death like the suicide forest
at Mt. Fuji.
The gorge is where you can end up while trying to imagine
your future.
Failing to do so, you never come out. No one wants to
stumble on your
skeletal remains still sporting a backpack. Return is
another spot on the
calendar of life challenge but you really have to talk
yourself through it.
Other voices will be there to help, don't fear the imagery
that stalks you.
The color of trial and gorge is black, to be considered
therapeutic as well
as a specter of the universe open to your mind, an akashic
dialog you
always need when the going gets tough. Self-defense and
commonsense
lead the way to a wealth of stored up wisdom, a rescuer that
saves you.
The dire furnishings of your confines, chains or fearsome
table painted
black, are meant to remind you that a deep space glimmer is
part of the
mind spell that frees you from your pain. You will carry
your knapsack
of stones to the waller and the bricklayer to be cemented in
place.
Nameless high-rise cliffs and peaks like ambitions you may
never seek
to explore, surround you along the way, everything you put
off until it's
too late. That single bulb over your desk or kitchen table
glowing into the
wee hours is as much of the universal metaphor of
illumination as any
tome or text of enlightenment, convergent energy made common
to all.
Despite bills and obligations you wrestle nightly to subdue,
a daydream
continues to pop up in the margins of the ledger like a
scrawl of foreign
tongues that taunt you from horizons that may never hear
your far cry.
Take strength from these visits, keep miseries like
semi-precious stones,
like a weary peasant, it could be the only thing you can
explain, a tale of
how you paved a thousand poetic thoughts with jewel lined
pathways
through the gorge, blinking with colorful animation,
actuality, be it true or
faux.
I predict you will read this and remember all that your
journeys taught.
Mystical Compass
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2016
