As we move into the shortest days and longest nights, I move further with in, locking myself away with my books and writing and unfurling imagination. Digging into the depths, peeling away layers of my own psyche. As a child born in late October, I am prone to fall in love with esoteric mysteries, hidden magic, and getting lost in the labyrinths of my mind or otherwise. I have an insatiable desire to penetrate the surface of all people and places and things, to hear their stories--the ones they tell and the ones they hide between the lines, in those moments of deep breaths and pauses and sighs.
The morning of my solar return I awake early and take off eastward, terra incognita. I ride through rolling landscapes as the city fades behind me and a surreal quality descends and encompasses everything, lifting me from the liminal space I inhabit to somewhere altogether otherworldly and unreal. Rivers run through teak coffee houses, hidden waterfalls cascade behind abandoned hostels full of narrow hallways and staircases and giant blue cushions, and a massive treehouse towers over a cliffside. It's getting late, but I stop and turn around anyway.
I'm the only motorbike on the road, the only bike parked at the base of the never ending upward staircase. A chill cuts through the air, and I zip my thick jacket and wrap my giant, heavy scarf around me. I climb the steep, narrow stairs until it levels onto a canopy walkway connecting the various platforms suspended in mid-air. Mountains stretch over the vast landscape, and beyond them the sun settles low, creating a soft orange glow across the sky. Birthday messages come through as well as a perfectly timed phone call. Planets and stars appear in the dark sky. Night takes over, and it's time move on.
Back at home, I empty the contents of my bag onto the bed. I pull out a notebook full of notes from my interview with an astronomer, a book of Japanese folktales, Sanskrit letter and grammar charts, and budget sheets with a list of books I'm requesting for next semester workshops. A glimpse into how I spend my time these days. The things that trip over each other in my head. I fall back onto the soft, white comforter and sleep for 10 hours straight.
I blink, and it's already November. I finish the Borges book I started last month, and think about all the clever ways stories have and haven't been told. I think about how much of an impression he's made on me, my life, my perceptions--which is a rather odd realization to have considering I don't ever recall reading him before now. And I can clearly see his influence seeping through the stories of Ted Chiang and Haruki Murakami. Reading mind-bending literature can unlock new neural pathways as readily as meditation practices and breathwork and studying ancient philosophies and languages. It can rip away veils and reveal more layers to dig through.
What stories do you discover when you penetrate the layers of your mind and the world around you?
