Origin Story - Puzzle Piece

The image fades and scatters, its tangibility dissipating into day. Days pass like dreams in this season though, and so with but a few reassuring lines, and several passing hours, the image turns to a cozy darkness again. In the darkness, yet to whistle, I see a single puzzle piece laying at my feet. In this innocent place and state I stoop and pick it up. Upon contact the image crystallizes once more into something like halls, again familiar as if etched into the spaces between threads in my soul or perhaps chisled from my soul itself.

I close my eyes once, the memory of a dream filtering to mind. After all, can it be said that there is a purpose to dreams outside of providing the backdrop for adventure or inspiration? So something like a dream merges with the memory of one and rain sticks to page as petrichor does in mind. I open my eyes and I am amidst suburban hills in a spring shower. Turning, I see the shore lined with crashing waves and darkened skies in various directions. Curious if aim landed true I turn to the trees and a nearby bolt of lightning sends all manner of bird scattering, ornis as if a map of its own dazzling kind, in a flash Starlings and Goldfinch, Towhees and Chickadees, amidst a spectacular scattering of others, paint this place to be the Pacific Northwest confirmed. In a convenience often only orchestrated in places like this, a road sign just behind indicates Eureka not far down the line. I place skates in hand on feet, and now a house down the coast and inward just a bit shines like a beacon in my mind; though not seen by day or dream, it shines all the same. I pocket the puzzle piece perhaps more like a coin now, having adjusted to these shapings, and jump the railing as thunder heralds our trip down the shore, along the 101 a ways.

The miles fly by. What thoughts run through my mind as I skate far faster than is reasonable? Can one ever think back to what they were doing at a time, traveling by themself, and remember what they were thinking about in that moment? Perhaps others have this layer that I don't, but often even if I remember action in a moment, I do not remember the associated thought, unless it is one of those moments like these, where my thoughts are on how little we can pinpoint thoughts in a memory, once the moment has passed. Still thoughts flow as they do, organized from bottom to top and top to bottom, whistling as they work all the way through. If it is not I who retain them or even direct such wistful currents, then who in this place might be said to? How many ways might an organ as complex as the brain be shared if all those sharing minds the steps of each other with such grace? Before long, with only a juncture or two taking us from the shore and marvelous coastline, we arrive at the canyon, and the road snaking down it to the wooded creekside (or riverbank in a storm), to arrive at a strikingly grand cabin for/given its remote and otherwise humble surroundings. In front of this cabin seemingly untouched by time or wandering hands, I speak, even orate in environs so idyllic, a poem before entering.

First and final day

Love orchestrated alone

At least directly

Door past the red line

Organizing audibly

Untangling threads

There must be others

These traitorous lines errant

Ordinance amok

Words felt all the same

Though not so ordinary

As a symphony

For notes played seep through

Into every orifice

Or gap in soul's form

Something like a dream

Though path's forks do not align

Puzzle piece yet fits

Pennies thrown to floor

Of wishing well or fountain

That more might be seen

Who needs oroides?

It's the symbol that settles

Beyond orled door

Ordonnance accomplished, I open the door marked with the familiar insignia, and cross through the opening o'er the threshold into darkness. Could it be said that I still occupy the halls of eep here? Would this be my "home pocket" or possibly that of another? The doors close behind me, and I take a deep breath in the dark silence; there is something comforting about it, in a way I am unaccustomed to. It does not feel oppressive like some darkness can, nor does this silence insist upon itself. So while still determining how to best make myself at home on this long weekend, I let thoughts turn to words, musings which wander into the darkness, each finding their own seats and places. "Alpha and Omega each know all too well the same truth: when there is no light, there is darkness. The rest of us know this too, but in a distant way. As lanterns and nightlights and electricity brighten our nights we oft' consider darkness an inconvenience that can be sidestepped indefinitely. This cannot be done forever though, by any schemed contrivance. If darkness is to be kept at bay, light must remain. The day great lights won't stay is the day all lights decay. When the last goes out, then darkness is seen by all, even those who had refused picture it in advance. I am not this way, and I imagine you are much the same. So we journey darkened halls remotely, that light might be found in all its unexpected ways. Might light be understood so that it could be asked to stay and inclined to say yes, or otherwise retort directly?"

While not as crisp as I am used to in stone halls, still wooden walls reveal, perhaps reluctantly, their echoed locations. In order step by step display as well the path to second floor. I recall now outside seeing oriels, ornate by some standards, lining the upper level. In no rush to find myself surprised by the end of some soft still silent couch, I slowly walk to the lowermost step. Approaching unimpeded I climb and count out loud "1, 2, 3..." Outside of the obvious lack of creaking, this journey reminds me of another I have taken many times, and in a way know by heart. It seems architect can be trusted here, as no unevenness or surprises interrupt my ascension. Emboldened by this success, as if welcomed or eagerly invited to proceed, I whistle a tune and beeline for the far room.

This door is open, that much keen ears can discern, and while fumbling with walls whilst window searching was expected, surprisingly my extended hand makes contact first with frame's latch. I consider how strange it is that though glass and though day, no light is seen through, not a single ray. Still it is no matter, this mystery is about to be solved either way. I flip the latch and fling the windows wide.

Daylight cracks into the room like a laser. From this first beam's first incursion time slows, as if this luminous introduction to the house takes far longer than is typical. Perhaps it is just my perception of things, but who else's could I corroborate with in a place such as this? Along the lines by which I myself can measure three days pass as laser turns to sliver, turns to crack, turns to sunbeam until finally, windows flung right open, daylight fills the room. 

My eyes adjust in plenty of time, soaking in properly this second story forest view. Only as it is leaving do I notice a distant figure or silhouette *pachoom* behind a tree. I squint suspiciously, wondering who might have been in a position to find such a place, and who might have been of the mind to watch such a thing in its entirety. I shrug and turn, smiling now as light fills the hall as well, all the way to stairs. I walk to the other windows and open them too, marking well the apparent lack of time dilation in accompaniment.

I make my way down well lit hall and well lit stairs to the first floor now dimly lit, feeling much more like home. While the second story rooms are now replete with the songs of birds, here below it is still comfortably quiet. I plop down on the couch and consider if I should stay or go. I scan the room from where I sit for any clues, spotting a curious door; do cabins ever contain basements, I wonder? I realize that for all my years spent I still have so much more to learn. Just like that a slight poke in my pocket finally comes to my attention. I reach in and realize that the puzzle piece has somehow wedged itself sideways, as if holding apart gates of its own, symbolically, between denim layers. I pull it out and examine the piece, flipping it in my hand. The way its shiny side reflects what little light has made its way here below makes me yearn for the open road. So I stand, find the door, open it, and return past the threshold to the forest just outside. 

These doors, I recall, close of their own accord, but as they do I turn back to the house and speak a parting sonnet. Much like with the light, the sound of my words seems to slow their closing, that the house might receive every line before farewell.

"Might I say 'parting is such sweet sorrow'?"

I still have no certainty one listens

For all I know I'll see you tomorrow

Or in hollow halls word like dew glistens

Is it foolish to think I'm not alone

Or in faith do I believe that you heard?

I claim nothing when so little is known

Does one with full flocks covet unseen bird?

With this perspective I cannot relate

Save where imagination is concerned

For flame ignites even on this blank slate

For one with all, this trait cannot be learned

Made up road, forest, trees, house, sign, and door

Each piece still riddles 'Ritzy gourd a'(o') lore?'"

With that the doors click close. I turn back toward the forest to see hints of purple and some pink seemingly seeping from sunset skies to between the trees, like one might expect from something like a dream. I feel concern slip from me, or at least what's left of it, as I meander from the house with the road in mind and puzzle piece still in pocket.