I, a lonely lover of linguistics, search for a spot to
speak. I clamber over mountains of myth
that contain the broken bones of forgotten words, lost letters that constantly cry
out to be used again in the songs and sonnets of heroes and ancient races. Once
whispered in breathless sighs between lovers or shouted out of the angry mouths
of warmongers they now lie without a place to call home. I stop. The vibration
in the air has changed. A subtle breeze begins to burrow into my nostrils as I
breathe in the scent of lost love letters mingled with childishly written
birthday cards to fathers and mothers. This place has no end and no beginning,
it has always been and forever will be. In this
shadowed realm of infinite possibilities and scenarios to be picked like
precious pearls from a primeval sea I begin to feel the thin veil sunder. Two
worlds start to join as I hear the sound of the traffic outside my window. This
is not a comfortable place as I’m brought back to my senses to a more concrete
and solid state.
In front of my desk looking out onto the apple tree in my
garden I am reminded that there are places in between the one where I sit. The
scribbled sentiments on the page are not only written in many worlds but from different
times that converge in that one moment to find a place that they can call home.
This place where I write is a consecrated circle where spells are written and
cast, where literary homunculi are formed from subterraneous thoughts to walk
without wires. Places are never completely physical, they are anchors to a
space where the muses live and who whisper in the wind.
