i.am.not.real

This visit will be short. Full of sweetness and hollow promises that glide on the rainbow coloured dough of unbaked bread. Scents will scare the thoughts that dance to lure. With bends that baffle the mind, with movements that rival the essence of this drummer’s innate rhythm. Easily drawn to the mischievous spirits of the western winds, unable to resist the magnificent glow of suspense. Through a narrow and harrowing hole the morning light creeps in. Lights the bedding covered by leaves killed in autumn. Touched by a hint of frost, blown by a swift current, burnt by the amazing mother of all warmness: the undeniable summer sun. The table stands on three legs, unsure of which side to rest on the creaky boards of the shifting room. Landing softly on earth rich in decaying broken hearts. Bare feet leave imprints, light dust of journeys to and fro thinly cover the surface of the damask tablecloth. The teapot is burning hot. This is where all burden must lie for safekeeping. From here the hike to the summit will begin. Choose feather-light steps to mount the path covered in snow. White snow that keeps the weight of any sin, that holds the heavy heart of monsters, that captures the windy airiness of the spirits haunting. In an attempt to keep quiet through the chase, bubbling laughter meets the adversaries, unexpected and unclear, softly locking the idle hands to the knobs of forgotten rooms. This has to be seen! The smell of freshly grown grass oozing through the keyhole, covering in an inexplicable cloud of freshness the entire length of the childish imagination. Dreams must be dreamt in all force. Hindrance, give way! Each breath blows tides away, pulls them close to the shore. From this vista the pieces of the puzzle can be clearly seen. The bits that fit the frame are glowing, those in the middle are invisible. The sharp edges represent the waters. They are fresh, from afar it is safe to tell. Fish travel in packs and teach mammals to live underwater. Grow your fins, grow them fast to avoid a fateful collision with the Hedges and Oxbows. Feet might be of no use, they may be disposed of soon. Beauty touched the skin, the roots of that shiny hair, now scales cover the feeble network of warm, red leverage. The dizzying heights of the tower beckons for more fishlike birds to seamlessly descend. Under the cover of darkness they hold the bricks in their yellow beaks and replace each instant with a lie. Construction began early, it is required to wear a hat that protects the brows that uncontrollably push the wrinkly skin on the forehead high above. The flapping fans the snowy dust off the tablecloth, clears the mirror that has been covered in golden robes since the times of Moses. May you close your eyes and see the beauty that lies beneath, always. May you realise that most things are not real. This is what you found on the hour, beneath the rusty sheets of Willamette Mountain. This is what you must take from the valleys that lie deep within Willamette Mountain.