Wash and Dry

Falling as petals off a flower with the new season, I shed the leaves of my primordial understanding. I fall, cascading into the black abyss that is the future. Several paths leading to the same place. Is there a best route? Can they all be taken with one step in, two steps back? So clear is is the singular unwanted journey, but the others, with the capability to transform my being into a new conscious, are foggy windows behind a dryer. There are glimpses of what lies on the other side, and then a load of tumbling delicates bring another arid, blinding hurricane, masking the window with frosted fright. With a towel I wipe the aperture of the smoking nebula, but her spiraling fury negates any progress I make. I must wait until the cycle is complete and then I can remove each newly cleansed article, carefully fold each specimen and place it where it belongs--my belongings once again compartmentalized to be easily accessed. I then reach for each morsel as if from a spice rack, sprinkling fragments of experience, shards of knowledge, pieces of emotion as needed to taste. Such is my process, the overwhelming impatience of the circuit, a set time in an endless series. The final spin cycle before the stop and release. A breath and the haze clears for the ransack and plunder of the crystal spell, before the orbit transpires again.