Good Grief 238

The Eyeliad continued - The Journey (and Hypnos buggers off)

Wearily, our wimpy (anti)hero turned her body in the direction of the south and far east. Climbing over the bleak wintry wastelands of the high places, the snow-backed slumbering unconscious 'mind mountains' slipped seamlessly into the skies beyond. And then she took her place in the endless stream of souls on the 'Trail of Improvement', the Way taken by many through history (they call it, The One) now lined by the small but mighty legions of the little coned ones, their red caps luring us all to The Vanishing Point, which never seems to come, not yet anyway. Monitored every so often by the ever watchful Yellow Eye, an invisible lash to the conscience ensuring conformity.

Released, the pace quickens and our antihero is sucked through the vortex of salt and spray, temporarily blinded by monsters as she rushes onward to The Flatlands. Soon the pervasive smell of cabbage heralds the Kingdom of Brussel Sprout before disappearing towards The Uncertain Lands where land becomes marsh becomes sea becomes marsh becomes land as Tide and Moon sway through time like lovers lurching back from the pub.

A night of no sleep, the eye understandably not happy. As I write this, I am watched over by the orders of service of mum and dad, sitting together on the kitchen top, and the boiler man is doing his thing, pointing out various problems; and I find myself astoundingly weary of the whole Journey.

Annoyingly, there is some beautiful light on the winter flowering cherry blossom. The effrontery.