A less indignant discussion on the topic of mind-wandering…

I am daydreaming, traveling frivolously throughout the unreal. As the minutes tick farther south I briefly wonder, “is it wrong to relive one tale so many times?” Eyes unfocused I begin a journey in grayscale. Distant becomes the hum of a large box fan, my hair curling at its ends from humidity and dense as weaved cords about my neck, cradling my shoulders. Copper to gray, I see past the pebbled ceiling- gray trees pared to bones, upward reaching. Black coats, the porous wool and my attention drawn once again to the tactile. My fingers grip the wood of the boat side. Peaking at either end, ornamental. It is lovely, ancient, dark. It is tethered, it is pulled by this heart cord. Otherworldly, devoted- I am propelled. The sky here is painted all in textures, the dirty whites and swirls of darkening gray. But I imagine my pulse, eyes diverted, beating fierce to reach its source. A heart chamber, filled to breach with hundreds of firm, juice filled pomegranate seeds. I speak of this tale at length, an ode to the canon from which its characters were conceived. It lives in my mind beside Carter’s the Bloody Chamber and Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors. I transpose upon its dreamscape, trespassing on the intimacy of plot lines. I tangle the strands of its flowing verse, fingers twined through the encompassing g’s and open backed w’s. weaving the plot to fit my form, I am surfeited in my fixation. I want not for anything more, I am whole in my deviation.