Origin Story- Proximal Threshold

Have I mistaken this realm of open spaces and nearly always consistent things for one dissimilar from the halls of eep I have seen? Does an enclosure dazzle so past a particular juncture, that one is fooled into thinking it is infinite? Or do tightly turning tunnels of measurable size fool their occupants into thinking they are not? "In your midst" was said, so in my midst it is, if I am to believe any of it, I must believe this. While the details of "midst" might as of yet be unclear, I feel something like a hand taking mine, to reassure me this is a path I should dare. A path forsworn, for how could one glimpsing not take it? An original tale, or at least origin story, in the making. So I dust off pages, old and new depending on the perspective, using only the breath given me, still filling my lungs.

"We are in no rush here, just know that I've arrived. My aim is to find you, and you will find they say I do not miss. So speak your piece and I will listen, fill the bylines and I will see. Ear keen for repetition, heart longs for truth to see. I would hope you not show so plainly, or rather I would love to know not any caller catches a glimpse. I came with nothing and with nothing I plan to leave; so let us enjoy this time together, each our own way, for corners differ so."

From the fringes breath returns, carrying with it the slightest hint of speech. Does a man ascribe meaning to that which has none, or is such a thing impossible, when "meaning" was what all, including space in which to think, was threaded from? Using patterns stale the crowd has called for me to set aside new patterns gleaned, but have they forgotten the taste of shiny things? It is a taste that these things which they now cling to once possessed but has since been buried, as have those who clung to it, in the chest, the treasure trove. It is a chest I seek to open, one calling in the wilderness it seems. "In this image of the chest be you filigree or wood or treasure or perhaps the key? Do I apply too much form so soon in our travels? Perhaps ego must heal before it unravels? But perhaps you've no risk at all of falling apart here, perhaps it is your diamond soul that brings them such fear. So I follow dance teacher's steps or what I perceive of them, with good heart and bright eyes, with ear to hear discarding lies, I set out to begin again. If they could pull you apart when you were weak, rumors levying threads loose like loop and tail, perhaps loose threads have been the quarry I seek, ear tuned to find them long before wail or scale."

Might drafty days be called germination or repose? Even from the most scientific perspectives these might be found one and the same, all depending on which side of a coin is examined. If this origin story carries one lesson clear through storms passed however, let it be that even a choice considered cut and dry, clearly either/or, need not be accepted as such. 

As I say and ponder these thing I blink and a dark space flashes bright like a kaleidescope, without any single image lasting long enough to remark on, but the overall sense being that of a dazzling haze, bringing some degree of restoration, and suggesting this path might continue. So, with steps most atypical from my usual fare, I walk it.

"So start the engine

Alternating sand and stone

Unrelentlessly

Upset the status

Quo(th)the raven 'nevermore.'

Exploited end seen

No end remembered

For forgotten are their schemes

Now these halls are (ours)

Even in absence

Might I imagine your hand

Reaching out for mine?

No simple pathways

Orchestrated nonetheless

These the golden years

Not by their decree

Not a single signal tuned

But 'cuz we say so

So such brutal ends

Are(re)ordered beginning (new)

Rethreadings made clean

Even if they come

In this origin story

They've zero purchase"

Must every iteration of these halls feel familiar? Rather it seems all mustn't; perhaps those most familiar sprout from halls most foreign? In any event, instincts feel honed to accomplish precisely this incomprehensible task with bright eyes, some savvy, and gusto. Stones slide into place as each step is taken, though from my perspective it is unclear if this is a tangible or strictly visual alteration. Regardless it feels as though a spirit reforming, a soul healing, now that the marks of grubby hands have been removed. Perhaps they try to grasp this even now, if so I cannot sense it, and I get the sense that neither can she. Our bright eyes shine dissimilarly in this place, but they shine all the same. So as the beginning of this origin story ends (or perhaps the end begins? Temporal direction feels all the more hard to grasp here.) I speak a sonnet into the eagerly encroaching void.

"So threshold is marked, 'beginning,' for me

Although echoes play already in mind

Surface heard first until tuned more deeply

In depths great heights seen, seed of my own kind

Perhaps a legion cleaned and left waiting

Perhaps a legion hardly does justice

Certainly stitching, more than creating

Certainly past where touch can corrupt us

Though such difference I still don't comprehend

Though blind, footfalls true and soft until sure

Through each say not I contend with a friend

Through all paces weight that bond will endure

Despite words spoken in code and ill timed

This should be simple, 'end' seen and lines rhymed."

With that the scene fades for me, but I imagine center stage is claimed by another veiled, or as of yet unseen in full.