When two storytellers live together it’s easy to get lost. As much as we leave white stones and breadcrumbs back to civilization they are eaten by crows. The incongruity of gingerbread houses in the darkest depths of the forest is too great a siren’s call. No mast to lash to or wax to resist the orphic songs. Though this is no Scylla and Charybdis and there seems to be no idiom between good choices. For whatever path I follow in the lands sculpted for me I am delighted and charmed.
I have disappeared from people who I have spent untold hours with. Events and parties which loomed so large in my timeline before are being ousted by building fairytale homes. With an epicurean delight for that which satisfies a demanding palate, it seems wasteful to spend time anywhere else.
Coupled with a work life that is surreal and where we have a chance to actually carve out an empire in a vertical, and locked in this work together, it makes many things dim.
I find myself giving a permission not to entertain but to enrich. To spend time crafting the skills needed to tackle the problems I really wish to solve. To sit with worlds unknown to me. Unlike any time in my adult life, I am encouraged to live in this fantastical in-between land and it is here where the poetics will take root. Where words are tended with the precision favored by bonsai enthusiasts. In some ways, I feel in miniature. A tiny observer who is spying on the saikei built around me. Where does that stone bridge go to anyhow?
For now, I am going to find that path in the yellow wood and hope I don’t hit the dome glass of this mythical terrarium.