Parallel Anamnesis

In the depths of the cavern, you can hear the pitter-patter of precipitation dripping from the stalactites above. The vast chamber is temperate and perhaps even warmer than one might expect from a subterranean expanse. As we journey ever forward along the ascent, the lights glisten off the rocks creating shadows and shapes which further accent the dewy ambiance.

I close my eyes, and it sounds like rain reverberating decades into the future, onto more pleasant times, awaiting rediscovery. However, those days were still cold, foreign, and unfathomable, both lost and unknown. Events, larger than life, stain my memory like the evening sun shining through colored glass, a sightless void that stretches far into the strange and nameless.

As I take another hit from the makeshift soda can (pot pipe), I remove my thumb from the carburetor to clear the chamber I was just in. That’s when I felt the texture of the words escape my mouth: “This isn’t ditch-weed?!” To her surprise, my celestial companion, Salvia, cranks her head towards mine, and shoots back: “You’re not my tour guide!” Upon hearing the words and seeing her expression, the hairs on my arms awaken and stand on their ends.

I was in tune, as the sound combination imbued the evening with meaning. Yet, these moments, as moments tend to, faded into the ether. I now find myself with pen and paper in hand, more lost and confused than before, but with a subtle air of certitude. Thus is the nature of things, one can never arrive at true north without a sprinkle of spontaneity, or sometimes, a pinch of poison.