"You can't turn around", she said turning her gaze to the back window. "we have to go forward", she hesitated as she finished her sentence,"and on foot".
The glitter was still there in her shoes, but the red had faded. " I never noticed that before", she thought, as she began to notice all of her surroundings were very different from before the crash. Where had they landed? Had they been here before? Was she dreaming all of this?
Have you ever noticed the sun, when waking up in a new place, as if from one dream into another? It's as if it was there just for you. The heat that bounces off of it, is different than back home. It's rays, extending, as if by some cuneiformal design, into you. The window drawn with a black marker on your shirt. The rest of you basked in gold.
The journey itself must be long and arduous for most of us not to even remember the first few years. Tragic must be the trip into this plain for most to forget where they came from. Is it a dreamworld? Is it another reality? How do we all know we are not all in comas, waiting the nurse to nudge our hands just the right way. Or that loved one to enter that room and by the will of our intestinal destinies, stand up wide eyed and ready for actuality.
It's is said that on certain roads, there are those that are born of the guitar. The sound it makes when the lights go down, the vibrations of the strings, the rhythm of the player's hands. They enter when the solo comes in. A high piercing, like a whale's howl. Held for only so long as to allow the split in world to occur. I once saw that split in the world. While exploring the desert of the midnight sun, I heard a sound of thunder in the distance. A large boom, then came the cracking sound. I looked off into the wall of night, and through that small split of a slit of a salty vagina, came a train. HIgh as gathering of secretive skyscrapers, huddled in humor. A city on wheels, steel dominion over that moment. I had not even noticed the tracks it ran on until the bullet had passed before me. I even felt it pulling me closer. My feet at the edge of the tracks, my mind at the other edge of fjords of my fontanel. Time, hanging out in one of those cars. Napping away the descent of man. And just like that, Enter quiet. The desert once again only disturbed by that lonely cowl of the coyote.
It must be the same for those born this way. Crashing into the sand of that deserted road where they collapse. Sometimes fully clothed and sometimes fully grown. Music, has no beginning, and no end. What you hear is being plucked by those of the duende, from that other place, where lost love lives on. Where souls wander in an out of regret. Tapping their fingers on the edge of the sea of our reality. Standing on the edge of the glass dome we call victory.
There are others born of the gun. Out of the barrel of deceit and the steel of disarray. They come shooting out of that hidden cannon deep in the earth where the devil lives. Where the devil plans. Where the devil sits and wait to collect those of the guitar. Here on this plain, these opposing sides, battle through twilight and dusk, until there left none but one standing.
The duende's journey is to find the heart for all the others, who battled and lost. His journey is to find her eyes, and to fall deep inside. To find her, who carries the moon as her parasol. The sun as her dress. A poem written in lines by the ancients, that speak of the history of whispers. Her perfume, carried by the winds of Aurora, surround her, and can carry any man to the riddle of his death.
His music, can be heard running alongside the face of mountains, where power resides. Hoping to catch her in a trance long enough to persuade her to grant him entrance. If he succeeds, and enters through her eyes, the true journey begins. For he must traverse all in that universe. Come storm like horses, or empty skies like buddha's meditation, he must go on. He must walk through that valley of shadows, and find the one hidden in caves. The hiding horned one. The hooded man in the gauntlet. There is only one way to escape.
When there's desert in both directions, follow the wind. Ride the song of the sandstorm, until you find the trumpet player. The door at the other end of the rainbow. The click clacks of the castanets. Carpare's dance.
Music, is memory. At key points in everyone's life, there is music, sitting, kicking your ass down the corner, watching you cry in your room, carrying you away, and putting you to sleep. Waking you up in the morning, rushing you off to school. In dark rooms, where Beethoven breaks broken mirrors, putting you to sleep. While Holtz finds time to swing by the planet for a smoke, and nestles music between the keys of a piano. A Shumann being composed of hammers and strings. An entity of pure vibration.
"Where we heading?" Asked her friend, who knew nothing of their predicament as well.
She replied,"Far, far, away from this place".