There is not much to say when you unexpectedly awaken from the dream of waking life to find yourself in the darker part of town. Scratching your head trying to get your bearings as to where you might be and following that thought as to how you might find your way back to somewhere more familiar. What seems to be a short journey of a travail to the corner becomes your best guess as to which direction is best to find something familiar to base your quest to return as expeditiously as possible to that which you are accustomed.
Yet, try as you might, the best that you can muster is to wander further into a suburban subdivision that is completely bereft of artificial light lodged within the forever or perpetual night. The building shapes locked within the shadows giving a false positive in their barely recognizable angled artifacts. All it seems from some former era that suggests there once was a certain knowledge of them that only you possessed. An old acquaintance gone dim. Your fascination with this mounting puzzle makes up for that insecure feeling within of getting irrevocably lost.
You walk on amassing details trying to fit them into what you infer is a puzzle of this place once vibrant and alive but now lost somewhere misfiled in time within some anonymous yet not too unfamiliar person’s memory. Certainly building with clue after clue into your own. The rhetorical question of where all those minutes, hours and weeks of unending banality have after all finally unraveled their data stream to? Some hidden recess of the gaseous universe betwixt the heavy emptiness of thickly packed reconstituted potential?
This enigmatic place whose main streets seem suddenly more like alleys. You now a vagrant or vagabond traveling down the aisle of garages whose treasure make up the occasional discards of all the prospective occupants that are still not to be found to a man or woman. Certainly not at this bewitching you ssay hour frozen in the immutable moment of that bright reflective orb of the moon that by all rights should be overhead. Items that you might have picked up alng the way leaning here or there. Some broken into pieces or parts that recall the other parts of a missing whole. Nothing explained but inferred.
A journey in transition to stranger parts of the kind that if you walked long enough amidst them seemingly turning into the corridors of a maze of narrow granite canyons. Corridors that could be hewn from the soil by man. Or eroded over the long haul of history offering little more than a fine coating of dust daily deposited. But then, you have long run out of daylight in this perpetual gloom. There seems no turning back now as some midpoint has been reached where the starting point to this mounting caravan of half remembered thoughts has developed its own forward thinking inertia.
There is an odd looking book-like thing left discarded on the gravel just ahead to the side. What it might of shared in terms of companionship back in what seemed an alley is a clunky sort of emptiness. An overly weighty cardboard thing presenting four slots equally posed underneath a faux leather paper cover. Cheap is cheap! Even in this dream-bound ongoing mystery. What might have been posed by its manufacturer you wonder? Each empty space a perfect fit for what now comes back to mind as a set of volumes that were long ago written upon the topic of some other people.
This discovery’s recollection spurring me on to keep a keen eye for its missing volumes. The precision of the digest size inferred suggesting an even stronger link. You think about that undiscovered loneliness that your young father must have felt now that his memory has become simply that of a man like yourself. The sharing of the human condition to be caught between two poles. One of the bruisingly familiar and those of destinations fated to be soon explored and known.
A strange dissolute person greets you at the back corridor of this natural temple’s lateral hall. A middle-aged woman with long hair and a white robe gone gray in the lack of illumination now suddenly encountered. Embittered, she recounts how the person that wrote the books missing from that awkward cover that you now possess and that were contained within pose an empty set of ideas that had ruined her life. And played havoc with the lives of everyone she knew.
Now caught up in an instantaneous feeling of dread of discovery as its author you fall silent. A fear takes hold that you might be discovered by her as that very same person. The horrors of unspecified forms of vengeance that could be visited upon you strikes you to pose as if you are an unwitting innocent. The true measure of your acts no matter how well-intended come home to roost. You are alone and culpable. Lost without possibility of its avoidance within that undeniable thought.