aesmael

Now is time - with desire - to write of a place which has been with me as long as I can remember.

I call it the Wasteland. In appearance difficult to describe as it is unfixed. Most generally a wide expanse. Though it may (does) end in a void in every direction, it is generally sufficient in size to walk without end.

It is a place of uninterrupted flatness, unless there are mountains in the distance. There may be long grass or cracked parched earth. There may be no sun in the sky and no stars at night, though there may be, rarely. The sky might contain racing clouds, striated, colours. There is normally no wind.

Details.

The Wasteland is the last place. The place beyond which there is nothing. Though others might be reached from here, though it may serve as a sort of junction, it is nonetheless the end of the line. Depending on the manner of arrival and if one can leave - if one knows how - it might contain loneliness or solitude.

It is sufficient in size to walk without end because there is no destination but realisation. The edge is fickle to reach. My first perception of the Wasteland was of a place that is eternal desolation, hence the name, but it has grown more comforting over time.

Right now I sit here writing these words in grass and yellow flowers, wind blowing my hair. It was an hour or two ago when the previous paragraph was written a place of solitude. Now, a refuge. My only company the cat by my side. Except the cat is me too. The cat is new. Ish. Maybe. Complicated.

It might be refuge and it might be torment but that depends on state of mind and intent. Right now there is a storm outside and this is affecting what gets written.

Jayde lives in a version of the Wasteland [=>]. At first I thought it somewhere else. When my writing falters I ask her to show me the way forward, what is blocking me. [=>] What is there is there and her configuration is particular.

It would be a place to consort with my ravens, my crows although I am tired now and should perhaps stop writing.