Disheveled Regurgitation of Meaning
They meet at the dawn. The dawn shows the brightness of what shall be a cloudy day. But not just any clouds.
These clouds are puffy. White. Lined with silver. Some are tiny, some are massive. But how is there a dawn?
For there is no earth beneath our feet. It is, rather, a road. A road never traveled and yet is full of obstacles.
As the day progresses, so too become apparent the obstacles.
A crack here, a fissure there. Small pebbles abound. But this road is now paved when, before, it was only dirt.
A puddle here, a pothole there. Rocks amass beyond the horizon. Traveling at a slow speed until the dawn finally breaks.
The sun in full view now. A radiant sky, brilliant white clouds still float effortlessly across the sky. Hark, a wind.
A wind has picked up. Nay, not a wind, but only a light breeze. It brushes past my face as she does so carefully with her hands. It is a pleasant breeze, light and cool. It sifts through my hair as the lightest brush ever did.
We travel at a greater speed. The sun has risen to a mid-morning glow, obstacles have grown to rocks and bushes. This road has been mostly smooth thus far, and now is becoming interlaced with larger obstacles. It feels of the springtime.
Noon. The highest point of the sun’s path has heated the crisp, cool morning into a more humid, and sticky feel. The clouds have since the spring dispersed into a clear blue sky. Obstacles are becoming turbulent to the point of nearly unavoidable. Alas, we cannot stop or slow, for the forces of time have caught us in its current.
Early afternoon. The sticky, humid environment has now turned into a very dry and very hot temperature. The breeze has now morphed into more of a wind, but even now, in this heat, the wind does nothing to help. The boulders and thorns are scraping our lower extremities, hands and lips chapped. We seek to avoid the trees, but cannot stop to rest.
Late afternoon has arrived. Our road is no longer a road, but is now packed very much with the thickest brambles, and razor-sharp boulders superior to our height. The obstacles have morphed now into a mountain in the distance. Active, spewing molten lava. The heat has turned unbearable. The sun, still ever present in the sky, has burned our skin. Our feet are so badly cut and chapped, shins and forearms shredded, bleeding and bleeding more with each slash of vegetation. The wind is now very much strong, providing an environment of an oven on this now highly difficult-to-pass road. The sky is turning into a reddish haze, no longer blue as we turn behind us to see.
Dusk has arrived. But the heat is beyond the hottest deserts. The wind is gale force, shredding into our faces with sand and detritus. We try to block the wind, but alas, our skin has burnt and the ashes blow away. Clouds have arrived, torrential in their flooding capabilities. Though our eyes have dried, we still see. Scaling the cliffs of the volcano. Our bones are showing through our shredded shells of former flesh and muscle. I look to her, and she has melted but still climbs with me. Bright purple and radiant blue lightning strike nearby, busting holes into the volcano — through which now pours lava. The sky has darkened, but in the distance, in the direction from which we came, flashes of electrical storms show radical tornadoes in great numbers.
We are at the top of the cliff. We stare into the center of the volcano. Its reddish hue, its yellowish sparks, its blackened patches of obsidian, flow as an eternal river, as an abyss. Yes, here now is the abyss of the flame. The wind, ever so great; the rain, ever so heavy; the heat, ever so maximal. We each take the other’s hand, and now gaze upon our mutilated bodies. Rotted flesh. Empty torso cavities. Thunder is so loud it ripples the abyss of lava.
Ends meet. They meet at the dawn.