I tired of the world. It no longer interested me. The things that once consumed me seemed shallow, meaningless. I was lost on a one-way street, choking on the dust of those passing me by. So out of desperation, out of fascination and perhaps out of denial, I left behind that dusty beaten path and followed a skinny trail that twisted deeper and deeper into the unknown territories of my soul.
So dark was it in that place that the devil himself would grope and stumble. So dark was it that every whisper of motion, every tiny crack and barely audible swish seemed an enemy. It was moist there, and hot, and I sensed wet, dark trees with wet, dark leaves. A forest. I had read Dante's Divine Comedy; the symbolism was not lost on me. The forest breathed, breathed jaggedly. Every breath was a crystalline exclamation. I stood still, blind and terrified, until my breathing and the forest's were the same.
Would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? The forest in my soul demanded that I consider. Amelia Virginia Dickens. If my name were Elaine, or Andrea, or Francine, would I still be up above, choking my way along that dusty thoroughfare?
I lifted my hand to wipe perspiration from my brow.
As I stood among the invisible trees, sweating, afraid to move, it occurred to me that I was Dante, lost in some strange wood, at the all-important cross-roads in my life called adolescence. I wondered if I, like Dante, would be presented with a guide.
A wisp on my calf. I I stiffened, drew breath, sharply. Panic shot through me; I thought of spiders, creeping, sneaking spiders crawling up my leg in that thick darkness.
But then a different thought came to me.
I bent down and touched. I used my fingers to explore the sillky curl of a flower petal, the wet doughy soil, the pleasingly firm stem of a fern frond. I was no longer afraid of what I had found within myself, because I knew that it could be beautiful.
I realized suddenly that I was more aware of my surroundings than I was of my own body. I had lost track of my familiar measurements: how far was it from the tip of my thumb to the tip of my index finger? A few inches, a few feet? How deep were the wrinkles on my palm? How wide was the bridge of my nose? I found I didn't care. The shape of my face and the length of my hair were as unimportant to me as the hairs on the feet of an elephant.
My guide, I discovered, was to be a cat. I chuckled to myself. Allergies must not matter much here.
Lenuit was a small cat. he enjoyed licking himself, taking long vacations and lapping at warm milk. During his absences he left me no clues as to his whereabouts, and no hints as to when he might come back. He made figure eights around my legs. I leaned into him, hoping to learn from him by osmosis.
Lenuit did not like the moisture of my forest, so he lead me deeper into myself, further away from the waning comforts of the beaten path. Trepidation rose in me like a black tide.
"Wait, Lenuit," I begged. "There must be more for me here."
I heard his padding footsteps coming towards me.Are you the leader, he asked, or am I?
...To be continued...
