Every morning and evening I look out the window, at the remnants of the volcano. I think about the explosion and the devastation, and what became of the ruins.
In so many ways I can relate.
I am having an experience and I am enjoying it. I think back on the explosion of my life, the lava of lost love, the ashen faced me wending my way to the sea, see me no more. I call out but I cannot hear myself because I have gone.
Wrong, all so wrong and yet somehow exactly right.
To fight is counterproductive. Float into the wastelands and wander for forty days and forty nights. Eat the wind, the dust and the sweat of toil. Blood boils until it evaporates into mist, I missed something and yet I saw more than I should have.
I see lots…not dead people, but messages, in the breeze I hear whispers and they help me to know what to do. Sometimes the sounds are confusing, but as I get older I gain agency over them and wend my own pathways, through valleys, plains, marshes, concrete, bricks and sand.
And then there I am again. I never left. I never disappeared. I never dissipated into oblivion but rather reformed.