stick to your silk, the stars are yours
I must have looked silly to the hip kids hanging out at the fountain at one o'clock in the morning with their sunglasses and trenchcoats and bags of popcorn as I sat down in the road under a tree. I don't mind though. I thought the strife of a caterpillar needed an audience. I cheered him along his path up a strand of silk that seemed to extend to the heavens. He may never reach his star but at least he has his path worked out. I'm sure he'll be well above the tree before anyone finds him again. I like secrets like that.
I was sleeping in my bed when I got an urge to get up. Something was calling me and, feeling suddenly awake, I swung my feet onto the floor and crept down the cold hall to the door. Something told me to continue so I cracked the door and slid through it to the front yard. I walked and walked along a path for how long I don't know. Eventually the path lead me to a field surrounded by thick woods. The path continued to navigate its way to the far trees but I stopped and stared. It was so strange. On the far side of the field where the field was overtaken once again by ancient trees it was daylight. The trees were waving in a balmy afternoon breeze and the tall grass in the field rippled like a golden ocean. Yet, where I was the moon still dominated the sky in the dead of night and a sharp edge separated the two phenomena. My night began to feel simply like a frozen cloud shadow. A weathered silo nestled along the path at the field/forest barrier like an aged sentinel guarding the gate to the woods. My feet carried me across the soft grass bathed in the blue of night and to the peculiar wall. Not one for waiting, I pushed through. The sunlight was blinding and the wind was fresh and swift. The steel husk of the old silo was hot under my hand and I could see veins of rust snaking along the exterior. From behind I heard ruslting and turned to find a group of indians filing in from the tall, sunny grass. These indians weren't the tattered reminants scraping out a living selling replicas of their past in stands along desert highways. Instead they were warriors and scouts and chiefs with their naked, sun-baked shoulders gleaming with sweat and dyes. An official one indicated a sign which I had missed that said "No men wearing arms." Since they sported a wide array of pointy rocks and sticks, I put up no opposition as a scout came forward and relieved me of my sword. With this they seemed pleased and they invited me to follow them. Before long we were walking in the sun-dappled darkness of a forest that had seen no other men but these. I marveled at trees that would die before my time and all before theirs. I miss that place my feet never touched. I miss that time I know only in dreams. If I pull my covers tight maybe I'll find my way back.
There's a mirror in my room and if it breaks into some friendly shards then it will be the last mirror story no one has to listen to. I guess I can't assume that everyone else takes interest in things that I think deserve it. Perhaps some experiences are better kept locked inside your head. The world only sees itself in the mirror.
Good morning.