Movements

“I sensed that you were looking for me?”

The voice had a subtle tone to it. He expected me to be appreciative of his presence but also aware that this was not his first choice. To be frank, I didn’t think he’d show up. There are only so many times people bump into each other and treat it as a coincidence. The clarity one gets from a conversation of a decent caliber is a hard thing to mask, what’s more, it leaves you with a lingering need to chase this feeling. Its almost intoxicating, to know that there are ways to trick your brain into complexities and mental gymnastics that can exhaust you, yet leave you satisfied. 

While it didn’t matter why he actually chose to finally come here, his presence was useful. The alter was nearly ready and the rest of the group would be here soon to deal with what’s left of him and others. I almost felt bad for them.

No one truly knows what cause they are vessels to. Most have a sense of something larger than themselves exists, out in the ether. Beyond the reach of time, space, and the boundaries of understanding, there is something that can ensnare the path your life takes and hold onto it. The balance that can be achieved if this path coincided with what one’s nature allows them to do is the mystery I try to solve.

Much like the natural forms of tectonic plate movements coinciding with the travel and formation of stable climate-specific species, there are moments when the specific alignments of place and presence make themselves known to one another. It is at these moments when we see there exists friction in the fabric of reality. Forces that shear the shimmering threads of reality, splitting, folding, bending them until they break.

These do not have to be permanent though. The opening of these threads unveils the layers/ strands of the threads, now open and charged with the energy of vibrant matter, ready to connect in unexpected ways. They can connect to themselves or to each other or even better, to threads that were not visible to them before, or perhaps were not threads at all. Whatever these now become is the new fabric of reality, reshaped and ready to be experienced.

Why is any of this important? I do not know. My best excuse is that the wrong threads cross when I encounter that man each time and I’ll now blame it all on the fact that it just happened again. It won’t happen again though. There won’t be much of an opportunity for it after tomorrow.

A short story inspired by images of imagined landscapes based on my work. This is part of a series of explorations in free writing and world building that I would like to grow further.

Written May 21st, 2022