My falling out with the Cartographer was not absolute. Though it's easy to notice when the deep gravity of the Universe, has been reduced to the mundane whispers of the ordinary.
The strength of loyalty is tested in these blind walks of faith. As the world unfolds beneath my feet, the mind too does wander. Hidden worlds vibrate between reality and fiction. I map this microcosm of the known, to reach the ever after.
And so it goes that in my purposeful aimlessness, I'll find the road back. Every excuse will always be, but letting go will set me free. Free to once again entangle creation's creativity.
There’s this new scar down the back of your hand. “New” implying that once in the recent past it was absent from your skin. And you didn’t really mean for it to be there, this faint red line, Sitting too close to the lone freckle that exists on the back of your palm like Polaris. Because now it’s a constant reminder of how you got it. And scars do not fade easily from your skin.
My tears; your pillow, An unmapped territory. Will you help me chart this new country? Or leave me - unto myself - An island of sorrows?
‘Sometimes a map speaks in terms of physical geography, but just as often it muses on the jagged terrain of the heart, the distant vistas of memory, or the fantastic landscapes of dreams.’ - Miles Harvey, The Island of Lost Maps