I wept. When I first passed through that hidden door and found myself lost, I wept. You can go only so and so much forward, only so and so many steps ... and this was too much. I sank down (on my knees). And I wept.
Today I know it is not so bad. There is always a way back, as long as you don't think yourself lost, you can find it. It may be in the breeze on a steep hill, or the soft turn of a neck. It may be in the dirt you wipe off your face, or someone's hysterical laugh. Wherever you end up, you only have to take one step further. ~There's one way back, and you always bring it with you. It is a small step. And it is a small part of you{rself}.
When two trains pass each other in opposite directions, how slim is the chance that they go at exactly the same speed(/pace)? But still, it sometimes happens. Your first ride through the (hidden) passage is (always) the hardest - because ~there's no way you can prepare for it/ because you cannot prepare for it. Billions of kids have gone missing over the millennia, but eventually they all/ always returned. (Well,) Most of them. Some tell their own story, others don't. Some thrill at the ~spike, while others become/ are terrified. What will become of them?
Eventually they all turn into adults. And most of them forget - but some remember/ will always remember. This is where I pick up. - I'm one of the latter {/those}. But I must tell this story at its own pace and time.
Pace and time are the hidden codewords of the universe. You cannot calculate the openings,/ - but you can target the places where those things tend to happen. Or(,) you can simply be at the wrong time at {in} the wrong place.
My grandfather had told me about the hidden passages, so I was not completely unprepared. My father said it was bullocks - the thing never happened to him. I never found out whether he lied or believed it. At some point he must have noticed the frequency of certain people vanishing at odd times. But then(,) ~he was never curious.
No comments:
Post a Comment