Jargogled Impressions.

From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached ~Franz Kafka

I walked down the alley as I was afraid. The April sun had warmed the concrete on which I walked bare foot. At noon, the windows on the side of the houses were closed tight shut leaving my view unobstructed. There was a 10 foot wall at the end looking over to the other side of the city.

I waded through the dwellers on the street slowly in order to evade attention. A disheveled man in dusty brown jacket looked curiously my way and lingered for a moment before turning it to the bread he held in his hands. Behind me, the city traffic maintained its flow, unaware of the happenings outside. The metallic bodies shuttling back and forth as if in a symphonic movement.

I was afraid because I had been told by the Romani astromancer that I am going to die today.  Something about the alignment of stars and my birth year in anti-chamber. She had a peculiar clairvoyance about this divination that was impossible to ignore. I believed her. I did so because she had been specific enough on motions by which I would depart.

And yet, as if I was daring it to, I continued with the exact re-enactment of the scene Maya the fortune teller had described.

She had said that I’d meet my fate in a narrow alley on a day like this. 

What was I doing here? 

I continued walking past the litter and the stench of human excreta. I fixed my gaze over to the building on the other side of the wall, willing it to come closer. That side, the one that held a promise for me, appeared instead to recede further and further away as if adjusting to my pace. I felt like a rat trapped in a spinning maze, the object out of reach always.

A door opened somewhere in the middle of this alley. A cat. It peered left and right before venturing forth, casting its spotted eyes on me, if only for a moment. Slowly, it crossed over to the other end and disappeared into the roof with a couple of jumps.

Bad omen. 

As if I needed more of them.

The shining flame of fire directly above my head, blinding my path in its white embrace, and transporting me to a different place, a different time. On the lawn we are supine, enveloped by the white haze. Adrift in the wind, our thoughts float high above the clouds.

What does it mean to be alive? I ask.

What does it mean to be dead? You answer.

In the street we walk as beggars

In the alley as faithless kings

Ah but it’s the truth of life

That chains us in between

Those lost moments we steal

To keep our love alive

And our prize so tired after all the pain

And time will fade

In time we’ll love

~ Tim Buckley