Allegropolis. Episode Three. The Bridge over Lethe.

The bridge stretched forever, a thread of light held taut between civilization and the blind horizon. The rain was beating down on my hat; streams of water cascading off its rim. Through the curtain of water, I saw the blackness of Lethe pummeled white by the torrential downpour.

Allegropolis, where everyone smiled. Flanked on either side by the endless blackness of Lethe. And Lethe, that seemed to stretch till forever. Lethe, so wide that its banks disappeared beyond the horizon. The raindrops added to its width, and depth.

The water cycle. Evaporation. Precipitation. Evaporation. As I stood by the siderails, water running down my chin, the black oblivion seemed to be soft velvet. Somewhere i could sink in. Where the blackness would wrap me up. Hold me swaddled (or shrouded) in its womb.

Lethe was so full of thoughts, reflections, remembrances, recollections. So saturated, the words and letters got so muddled up, they no longer made sense. The raindrops were words too. Words cast out of mind. Words on exile. For in Allegropolis, all should smile.

The lights of Lethe were upon me. A psychedelic concoction of joyousness. As I looked back through the mirror, I saw that gilden thread of light fading into the white sheet of rain, somewhere in the middle of Lethe.

Lacing my shoes

I wished
The light night breeze would carry,
Softly swaddled,
The scent of your hair
Through the thickness of the air.
I wished
The words you dropt,
Casually strewn,
Would turn the black asphalt
Into a clear starry sky.
I wished
The air was as liquid,
And feather-light,
That it may blow off
My thoughts, hopes and memories.
But my shoelaces
Are entangled,
And I trip and fall
And wake up bruised.
The air was thicker
Than the blood on my arm,
As it spoke to me,
A voice deafeningly calm -
Ain't it better that you walk alone?
It better 'cause
The air ain't thicker
When you wont take away my breath.
The wind blows softer
Not ODing on crystal meth.
At least
Though i trip on my laces,
I dont fall over the words
You left on the ground...

Contemplations on Trance Music

The tones play on.
Muted melancholy.
The residual silence
Of some 140 beats per minute
Trying to
Shape the air into comprehension.
The beats were meaningless.
Some abstraction.
Craving to make sense
To seem significant
In the ensuing and preceding silence.
I was listening
To those
140 momentary spasms
Of silence.
Silence chopped violently into pieces.
Those 140 tiny moments
That paused with pulsating energy.
Like a heart.
Holding back to pump life
Down the veins.
The track peaks.
The violence is shudderingly real.
And once it breaks...
Oh bliss.
My heart falls back to its lazy rhythm.
The turntable is melting into haziness.