The beginning of The End

On one occasion ahead of a moment, I traveled to The End. This was a posh resort I read about in an age stained travel brochure, that had my name stencilled in the bottom left hand corner in red Indian ink. It had advertised bedroom sweet-baskets hung in Gin blossom trees, morning classes of integrity at 11 pm after breakfast, and two days worth of good sleep a night. Right then, my life had put on a melancholy face, and I had misplaced my sense of purpose (which I later found behind the couch) so a holiday seemed to be the right thing to do.

I then (with difficulty) stuffed my whole existence into a rag-tag knapsack, stashed a few good days in my pockets, and a bunch of spotty bananas in the pair of sneakers I carry on my feet. With a map in my pocket, I ran away – so fast I tripped – into a taxicab marked “Change” in a rather fetching script.

The taxi cab driver was a wise young man who I paid in zippers, a few spare keys, and a hat that said “I’m with Sid Vicious”.

I walked up the path made of ivy patterned moss, through a forest of ballads, with lyrics written on each leaf. They whispered songs to me, so slowly and clearly, I didn’t understand what they were saying. My muffled footsteps echoed with each of their words. At the end of the forest, at the beginning of two wrought iron gates, stood a man with sad eyes and a velvet top-hat. He bowed at me, and took my grief, and told me his name was Something. I whispered back that I’d forgotten mine, but he shrugged as if to say that didn’t need to know anyway.

Something opened up the gates, and they whistled and cracked and flew wide apart, sending out sparks when the iron scraped against the sky. I heard a wind-chime laugh.

Inside was a world which seemed to spin slowly in circles. The colors were odd, as if they had been inverted and blurred and tiled into the landscape, and the flowers were made out of plastic.

I followed Something down a path made of stamps, past a tree with questions hanging ripe off its branches - Dose one end create another beginning? - Is the end of something continuous? - Is the question different when spoken from different lips? - Is a question set apart by its definition?

The path then tumbled down mountains of thought, past the 37 wonders of today, and into an origami city, with puppet people who had paper thin hearts. In the middle of the city sat a drunken angel, with see-through skin and windows instead of eyes. He had lost his wings on top of his shoulders and in his hand was a bottle filled to overflowing with answers. As I approached, he offered me a sip, and I decided to indulge.

The truth burned down my throat, causing small questions to leak out of my eyes. I gasped, and waited for the world to start spinning again. The angel smiled, and offered me the rest, but I shook my head. The small bits of reality I had swallowed tap-danced and jumped with tiny feet in my stomach. I could barely stand to think what the rest would be like.

The path carried on, through darkling days and colourful nights, green striped mornings, and numerous Venetian concert halls.

We stopped in front of a circular room, with only one door, and pea plants creeping across the walls. Something brought me inside. The room was dark, and quiet, and safe. A mobile of Mobius strips hung over a small cot buried under a blanket woven with careful memories. Something gave me a cup of jasmine tea and reminded me that I was due at the back desk tomorrow morning, and I gave him a small smile in return. He stepped outside, bid me adieu, and with a tip of the hat, he had slipped off into the sky, leaving only a small ripple to disrupt the stars.

After I dug up my bed, I lay wrapped in a memory of tigers eye hunting and warm rain storms, while I sipped my tea and watched the smoke curl up and blow away. The mirror on the ceiling (which I had never noticed until now) reflected my thoughts and as I went to sleep, my mind wandered over the curves of a Mobius strip, catching only as the moon draped itself over the window and gave me a good night’s kiss.

And thus the beginning of my stay at The End drew to a sweet by weary close.

edited by moi lovely Sameen clapsso i think by this time my teachers are used to my wiriting and all but ms. won still give me funny looks sometimes - sigh- my fingers aren't working at the moment cos they hurt (don't you EVER play guitar for 2 hours of more when you have not played for a week .. the pain....) but um.. yeah, i get contuinally fustratedwith my work, and the fact that i allways skirt around the topic of something with many meaningless - but delightful - quesions. grr... any remadies?

review and i'll do the favor and if not then have kinda curtisee and GIVE ME ALL UR TOOTH-BRUSHES.. mfft not.