Literature

This one is about literature

An old blarney stone without a clue was raising the dead back to life again, and was doing pretty good all things considered in their place and out back of beyond.

When the conversion rate came along and pointed the finger, and said: There’s something missing here, I don’t know what it is, but I shall find out, one way or another; and clicking his fingers he vanished back into the ether to leave the old blarney stone scratching his head, over and over again until he grew weak at the knees.

On a naked branch of the toilless danger of one too many secrets, and just outside of town, the stranger of many endeavours was poised and reaching like a ballerina from that perch we’d all like to be on yet never quite get to as the breathless moments keep on being breathless. And as they pass bursting into the sun, they are forgiven for their trespass and given tickets to come back again and do the same, over and over until there is no same left but the magic moments coming one by one.

Sometimes the tongue runs dry said the blarney stone coming up for air from the deeps of this to get some air.

Whispered conversations came from the outskirts to rattle the bones of the blarney stone drinking a bottle of booze with a straight face until there was nothing left to say.

And then, many saw this as a sign and so began to sneeze a lot into the mystic breeze for their answers; as others sniggered from the sidelines, and stayed hidden in the bushes.

A truth is a truth whether it is hidden in literature or in plain sight, said the blarney stone finding its second breath and coming out into the light for a round of applause.

Moments are not many, and they come by suddenly like, to take your breath away and replace it with life.

If this is not on your menu, then you must find another date.

Are we going home together, or what?

Tell me more about this literature stuff.

My god, have I gone down the rabbit hole now?

I see you’ve read Alice in Wonderland.

Haven’t we all?

Yes, perhaps. But tell me, what would Hemingway have to say about this if he was here?

I have no idea.

Guess.

Upon my uncertainty, I have no clue.

Then let it be this, literature is uncanny.

It is?

Oh yes.

Then I must face my demons and ask them many questions about what my purpose is and how I can circumnavigate all the controls that keep me from it.

Yes you can do that, until the cows come home.

And then what happens?

You get to milk them.

And that’s literature?

It surely is.

A bleeding heart drunk inside the mirror, later, crawled out of the bushes and went for a swim and said: I don’t give a damn…

Sir, you must come down now, it is time to land.

It was here that I had to end the story about literature.

Later…

Images from Pixabay