the houses of Annie Wallas

Annie Walles took a walk the other day, down by the river where the gem-lit waters bordered the cruel lake and the fervent ripples morphed into rip tides that slapped and stoned. She walked along the briers that demanded the ancient levy of tears, sweat and woes, then past the deadened woods that whispered of pain and ecohed loss. She walked on. She walked on, though the hidden sun ravaged the air and the two-faced wind waxed and waned. She kept on. She kept on, fumblling and trembling, falling and waking, rising and tumbling.

At the end of the pathway, Annie Walles saw a path- a path of incompetion, a path of fullness. Or, more correctly, she glimpsed a path of two worlds, spanning wide chasm, highlighting the narrow way. Its roads were broken, spilled out and charred, yet also of ripeness, of life and greenings. It was a pathway of despair, a pathway of hope; a pathway of old fears, a pathway of faith; it was a pathway of pain, a pathway of promise. One side was the wide abyss, the deep drone of Dante. One side the packed Nietzchean marketplace, the soul-searching waking Frost.

So Annie Wallas walked the pathway, the road between two houses, bridged the incompletion with grave soulful wholeness. Neglecting the whispers of bated breath, these imprints of naught, she stood in the wide gap and knew of its fullness. She paid heed the sweet sighs of keeping, the soft cries of belonging.

For it was never a path between two places, spaces or time.
It was simply a pathway, nothing more, nothing less.

From My walk with Annie Wallas, Anon