A forest usually represents a safe haven, especially in dreams. I know it's long, but your poem reminded me of what
I wrote a month ago. It's probably too much, but I'll post it anyway.
A distortion, unbelievable inability to sense the known reality, it lures seductively and holds with an illustrious
grasp. The eyes, it is easy to see in through the eyes to describe the world. It is no longer the blue sky sunny white
cloud covered heaven, but a level lower, a depressing shade of the original design. So conceived is this new sight that
merely standing one forgets and loses oneself in thought, wandering aimlessly but getting exactly where fate ordained
each step of the foot.
In the distance, what appears to be a woman holds a child's hand smiling like in pictures poised by photographers
at the yell of cheese. The deviance from the path is impossible, no directional shift occurs to join in on the laughter
and happiness of the two. They slowly walk away with their backs turned at no more than eighty degrees, just enough to
catch the smirking smiling faces. The child has on a dress and holds a balloon in her right hand, while gently clasping
her mothers hand in her other. There was a merry-go-round right as they pass by anxiously in anticipation of an unknown
pleasure of being together, supposedly, and enjoying the moments they spend together. As fast as that moment occurred, I
found myself unable to remove the imprint of the moment and unable to change my course.
I was stuck, no way out, doing this task without thought, nor any self-guidance along the way. I am headed toward a
purpose and I know it's to continue this supraliminal sensation from disappearing. This feeling runs deep, as if
the perception of depth is miniscule and does not even compare in the least to the total depravation of connection
within the source of the despair. The mind tends to play these games of surreal benevolence, wanting to help others
along the path. Maybe it's a feeling of helping my selfish self discover the secret that the mother and child share
between each other - the secret of happiness. However, it is no longer I that is in control, but the path to the dream
that controls the mechanical movements that appear to occur of my body. Aloof goes the squandered heart and automatic
navigation takes over to compensate for the lack of direction toward ad infinitum's inescapable fate.
Memories... they flow into a bowl and empty into my skull, spilling over onto the asphalt, running behind as a path
leading back to an original source. A timeline, building, stretching, and growing, yet no time comprehension or future
intervention can come between my soul's depravation. A poet once quoted, "Where art thou," impeding the
ignorant tolerant line of disjoint and devoid sectarianism. Parochial is this path, for it bears mundane ordinance as
the unsweetened fruits from a fig tree bursting with flavor, yet no taste bud around could be bound upon the ever
distant direction.
As the scene of familiarity and mechanical oriented movement approach, I replay the last action as I did before, noting
that nothing has changed quite at all. The directions of moving pictorial illustrations race through, confirming the
same action is not abated to any degree. It takes precision and accuracy only sustainable through heavy experience and
devotion of an experienced craftsman. The actions cry out for much effort, but it is another implant, no longer part of
the being. It has become separate from the self and stranded abroad in the depths from where no conscious being can ever
recall. It is a dead feeling, a feeling of dreadfulness in completing the task. The task is desirable, yet it is so
fiercely rejected that recollection of details becomes immeasurably impossible.
Epiphany, mind wanders into the less visited sectors finally getting a flashlight to shine on the world inside
inverted. How well does the mind come into queue from each passing memory flooding back in as a story foretold in a
perfect sequentially composed rhythm. Now the dementia was all coming apart little by little. An ability to fight fate
and destroy the blue world of endlessness can be done by swerving from the way, by means of rebellion from the normal
preprogrammed allegory. What once was soup of freedom and slavery now becomes an escape, an exit, into the uncertain
schema of fear, destruction and confusion. Inasmuch, anticipate from breaking the cycle took the mind by storming a
cloud over the predetermined fates unwavering eyes.
A transformation, a definite sense of bleeding out what seems to form into a white coat mouse running away from my very
bloodstream takes place in plain sight. A distortion comes next like a wave of heat over the hot road in the distance
all around coming from every direction. A sense of true freedom has finally spread like a wildfire untamable by any
means possible at the given moment. The enchantment causes a collapse into euphoric enlightenment of the precursor
experience.
I am awake, sitting by a mother's heel, listening intentively as her words sooth my soul and provide a backdrop to
the preordained events of my future. She sits in her rocking chair sowing by a fireplace in a peaceful demeanor, almost
a glow, inspiring much courage throughout the room. She is benevolent and welcoming guiding my thoughts and reassuring
of the inevitability of my visit. I am entertained by the events of my life and exalted by her presence much like an
emanating beam of radiant energy she instills upon my core from every direction. Thus, since I am no longer a slave by
my own choosing, I am free to see reality as a reflection of age. A decrepit much older man forms from the young
preserved eternal journey back on the other side as the white mouse hurries by reminding of the once tormented previous
self. I am completely naked in front of this reflective self, becoming old in a few moments time completely in harmonic
emotional obscurity. It now all feels heavy, so much heavier than before after being enlightened by the life giving
mother. It is a gift, a burden left to carry for those wishing to break the cyclical journey of fate that is preordained
by the infectious white mouse running around in our bodies making its nest holes, defeating our defenses, and claiming
morsels left unattended by our lack of attention to our own inside's mess.
