I started with a dream, continued with my pursuit of a single moment and now I am staring into the face of what I can only assume must be the bridge between those two islands. Fog. It has to be fog. I stare at this story "Symbols and Signs", the words are opaquely apparent yet their meanings are veiled. I hope I am not the only one lost in this pursuit. I can choose a word and walk into the fog but how would I find my way back to the outside if I chose the wrong path? Maybe I will be lost forever...maybe, but Dr. Sexson said march so I begin my descent, or ascent, or charge. My eyes search the misty pages for any trace of a light or sign (pun intended) and suddenly there is one. An old inkling of recognition surfaces under a word, then another and another and another and another. Soon, my hand is running over the pages, all thoughts of bread crumbs and caution thrown to the wind in my now fevered excitement. Could I have found the right path? Am I on my way to the place where truth exists between dream and moment? Perhaps!
The fog seems to thinning, I am almost there...I am so close, my heart is pounding...I. AM. right back where I started. Staring at a page, lost in a day dream, distilled in a moment. Frustration begins to grip my mind as I finish the story, only to flip back to the beginning and find the same wall of fog. My search could continue again and again, a thousand times over (which I have to assume is what happened to the person that wrote an entire book on this short story) yet I know that, in the end, I will still end up exactly where I started. Chasing my tale.
Maybe that is not such a bad place to be though. I see the island of my dreams, yet I cannot reach it since I cannot touch or control my dreams. I also see the island of my moment, that immersive place where warm sand on a beach is continually between my toes and the last rays of a sunset never quite withdraw their warm embrace. However, my eyes see what my body cannot find. A moment can only be a moment. Surrounding and connecting all is that eternal fog. What the fog is, I do not know. Maybe it is simply the fog of questions and pursuits. One can ask and pursue til heart's content or heart's end yet it may always be a circular journey, or at least it seems that way to me. Dr. Sexson said that all literature is retold myth and to me myth is the retelling of questions and pursuits. A circle that shows itself a sphere; infinite faces and reflections but truly only one line that connects over and over.
Now do I sit here and stand idle the rest of my life or, perhaps, head off on this foolish errand made significant by my realization of its foolishness? I haven't a clue but until I figure that out I think I will dip back into the swim. I see a light house has appeared ahead and truly,
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