Wanderers

by Phoenix 

                                                                           art  by Jason Barnett 

I met the wanderer on a quiet street,

his words drenched in suffering,

every syllable full of a tortured

longing for something. I couldn’t figure out

what until our discussion took a turn.

“I hear you’re looking for adventure,”

the wanderer said.

I couldn’t see much of the figure; he

wore a hood that shadowed even his

basilisk eyes, just a fragment of the darkness that

haunted him.

He moved with elegant slickness

matching his sibilance,

yet his frame wouldn’t budge,

even with the force of an infernal battalion.

I nodded, and he said, “It’s better to dream.

You don’t want to know about the ugliness

I’ve seen, in everything.”

“But you’ve seen things,” I said. “You’ve

done things that I can’t help but covet.”

“I’d rather wonder. You don’t want to

know about the burden I carry, derived from

the heaviness, the infinite possibilities, hanging

on my shoulders. Sure, I met Apollo

and Hades, saw the black and white in every

side of the story, felt the effect

of poetry and flames that

casted shadows of obsidian. I shook

hands and sealed deals with the Devil

while playing checkers with God. I saw the world

pass out of sight in the blink of an eye,

fought wars on distant planets.

But it’s the weight of all of it that I can’t escape,

like trying to shrug off existence.”

“I’d trade everything I had for even a

fraction of what you’ve experienced.

Your soul seems splintered, but

I don’t understand why.”

“It’s the grandness of everything that

swallows you. We become so meaningless,

just flecks of skin, mere puzzle pieces

in a frantic conundrum.”

The wanderer put out his cigarette,

which smoldered like a star going out.

I tried to understand how this soul

could feel so extinguished, after all

he’d done and seen.

I saw silver on his tongue as he spoke.

“Imagination and dreams merge and

let you become the very essence of its core.

When you eventually go out there,

you will shrink with the days that pass.

You will realize even stars are just

specks of dust in the universe,

supernovae just ripples in black water,

planets just pebbles skipped upon the surface.

The imagination pushes past horizons,

destroying limitations with ease,

throwing the fragments and rubble

into a black hole of meaninglessness—

your own subjectivity becomes the focus,

never belittling your purpose.

Wonder while you still can. Wonder while you

still have purpose and conviction, before

existence takes it away and forces you to meander.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

Roaming aimlessly was my god.

My face was a puzzle of a thousand

confused expressions.

It just didn’t make sense.

“Even the vastness of existence has

limitations,” the wanderer said.

“Nothing is vaster than

wonder.”

He removed his hood,

and for a split second, I saw myself

looking out at me. Then it passed,

and I realized I hadn’t seen him remove his

hood at all.

We parted, and I knew that I wasn’t going to

give up my dream. I barely noticed

my innocence casting shadows behind me,

fragments I could never again claim as my own.

Click Below to read

The Fungal Nymph

by KA Opperman

on the FREEZINE of

Fantasy and Science

Fiction