I’ve met the driver before, the rides are often confusing, destination unknown.
What starts out up, ends up down.
A walk on soft brioche clouds can turn in an instant into a waterslide of turbulent water.
The ride is mostly smooth but dead-ends at a group of uncaring and dispirited buildings.
They reek of loss and bad decisions.
They feel familiar because they are.
But beautiful red and violent paint slowly drip down the faded façade.
I fall in love.
This Shangri-La usually not mentioned in tour brochures.
We exit the car, but I don’t remember any doors opening.
I’m greeted by another group, some are old friends, they wear different clothes now.
They pull out guns, not with malice, but rather to educate.
I look for my own tools of education in a toolbox and find a big wrench.
We are interrupted by shadowy white figures who wiggle through a portal.
They look well-fed.
No words spoken but none needed.
Their intent was simply to find and rescue Mother, the queen, who was lost without cause.
They carry her like ants back to the den.
Our driver now assumes its place behind the wheel.
It keeps on turning until we get it right.
This is not a dream.