“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.”
― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas
I should go forth on the shortest walk perchance, in the spirit of undying adventure, – prepared to send back an embalmed heart only as a relic to our desolate kingdoms
-and at the time of this adventure, in which ill so readily set out, paths shall pave themselves before my eyes, dissolving in dust behind me; worlds built upon worlds, their structures forged with the bones of their predecessors. Nothing left in my wake but a sparkling memory, the sacred service of proceeding in reckless embark.
Blind profit eyes follow my every move, judging with unquenchable delight.
The hardest of hearts landed with all the grace of a stone feather, brushing myself off and journeying deeper through the walls I’ve built, not by hand but by stubborn will, now disintegrating much like the ground beneath me. Perplexity follows the release of security.
Face to face I came, with a woman of whom I knew better than any other.
“My dear you think too many thoughts”
me said to I, or perhaps I said to me
“an over consideration of contrived cognition”
“My pet you fret too often”
she uttered from my lips.
“My Dove you must not look at life with such intensity. You must govern the kingdom of your mind and heart, not at all be enslaved by it. Incarceration of the self; is your personal sin of sins.”
“End the war, Let us be free.”
Were me’s final words before I vanished again, thrust in to another sea of thought, but this was my own copious plethora, here and now things had changed.
I returned -battered and bruised- and here I ruled Queen.