And I Told You So

Away. It is my favourite place to be. Away can sometimes be far enough from your current state, creating differences with it, while even saturating certain gorges. Away can be anywhere, and howsoever far you wish for it to be. It can even be the simple(or complex) expanse of the two verges of your bed, or even as far as the void between rapture and inferno. The more recurrent your stopovers at away, the better. You don't find your aways. You always know it deep down where it actually is, how the map to that place is stretched out. You have yourself at utter disposal there to what the world has got to offer to you. Remote from pandemonium. Such is the power of away that it makes you hallucinate it to be an abyss. An abyss you want to fall prey to, and not because it's enticing. But, because it's beautiful - not in it's own prospect, but the entirety of it. It'll show you only what you can feel. It's distant from the mere grasp of out our delectably fragile paws. Its insides are equally perilous as the beauty of its exterior. It's chancy to touch it, you know that. It's like a moth's attempt to merge into fire for the sheer love, with which it's born for; but is also aware that it'll be the sole reason of it's ultimatum. You've always known that. So you let it fondle you instead. Being right there, in front of what defines your true sense of happiness. Walking towards it, mapping the distance. You embrace yourself, not with the terror of being robbed off of yourself, but to feel the love that's there at your disposal seep through your membrane and run galore in your veins. You don't remain apprehensive anymore about the moonlight kissing your soul that you've bared naked for it, neither are you indecisive about the endless chasm you're walking on. You let the bracts and clovers be webbed into your dark tresses, as if allowing them to play maze. You smile as you hum along with the fireflies, bathing in its euphoria. You see that light. You go towards it, rhapsody taking you over. But you know better. You know you're better than the moth who'll give up its life to make love with the flame. You smile at it, because you know better, that even a burning house seems all safe at the opposite side. You turn around to walk away from it, bringing down its catharsis upon yourself. You silently denunciate it, ironic, because you know it's just you and the bottom. You keep walking back, climbing out of the abyss. With the moonlight still enwrapping your naked soul, and the clovers still revamping your crown, and the fireflies still singing out to you.

Away. It is the place to be, to know oneself. To figure out, if you'll ever figure yourself out, or not, maybe. Away. From all the things that try to crush your existence to nonentity. Away. Because sometimes, that's all you've got. Away. Because it'll mask you from your own demons. Away. Because it'll retro- and introspect for you, entrusting you with your own illusions. 

The picture was temptingly inspiring.
Later,
Ak.