Up the Rabbit Hole

         It’s a clash of colors, a melding of sound, a golden, broken Halleluiah. There’s nothing like it anywhere else.
         It comes from the shadows, comes from the light, comes from nothing and everything. There’s everything like it everywhere else.
         A sharp clash of black and white, yin and yang, and there is nothing so gentle as the edge itself.
         A drop, a fall, a leap from the edge.
         A terrified running, hiding, and longing from the depths.
         To be or not to be is not the question, but the determination, the culmination, the straight given answer as one can be both and not at all, for the mind is a curious place, the heart even curiouser.
         Curiouser and curiouser. A stumble into the rabbit’s den. An opening of the eyes. The first smile in months. A green sky and blue grass and nothing as it seems.
         A flash of light to a purple desert. A torrent of sound to an orange sea. The landscape ever shifting, ever moving, yet ever staying still. First one place, then the next, then another, and another until the end of infinity where maybe answers are held in some forgotten place.
         Indeed, the mind is a curious place, the heart even curiouser.
         Now there’s a pause, an idea drifting at the edge of consciousness like a translucent feather in a dream. The abstractness of it all is strange, but the words look, sound, feel right as, no, nice, as the ink pours itself on the tiny fibers of the paper. Tiny fibers that can perhaps be everywhere and nowhere and there the mind goes again, leaving me behind to implant its thoughts, impart its abstract sureality on the medium of choice. There it goes again, off in its strange own reality where little and everything makes sense, where nothing and all is understood.
         Red Hearts. The Red Queen. A field of green and pleasant memory sharp outcroppings of rock not far, but away nonetheless. Tangles of words form an intelligible unintelligible stream of thought behind the thought.
         If you look closely you can see what even the air is made of , no microscope, the only lens your own eyes.
         If only you would stay to notice, unravel, become, understand, see, examine, leap, fly, fall, sail, soar into the walls around made of the softest thread ever unseen yet know why you are afraid to touch it to breach its barrier and walk into the other world, one of myths, legends, fairytales, stories, dreams, nightmares, and the shadows of reality.
         Maybe if you would stay, you would begin to see it all and think and know that there is no other world, only the One in which we Are. There is no other world but our Own, delicate walls of thread the only thing to keep us from venturing froth into the part of The Only World that you have not yet touched, not yet set foot through because fear is the wall that tempts you quietly to look the other way and forget that all those other fantastical worlds are truly a part of our own we’re too frightened to gaze upon.