Fly by Night

I travelled far and wide, chancing upon lands thrillingly strange. Lands reeking of the corpses of Poetry, clothed in ink the color of spice, eyes wet with intrigue. I came across stars that twinkled at me, fluttering eyelashes coyly, winking down seductively. Deadly stars, untouchable in there burning beauty, enticing from afar with the promise of light. One heard tales of fools in delirium who had tried to reach out and caress these stars, envelop them in deep embrace for the width of a shuddering heartbeat, only to burst into flames, reduced to ashes in the blink of an eye. Stars like words and fools like readers who ventured too close and fell into obsession. Their graves lay in the Asylums Of Fantasy. Asylums were strange creatures. They spoke in whispers, groomed themselves to look as mysterious as possible, and everything they touched died a soft, slow death.

One day, an asylum silently beckoned me close. When I looked at it inquiringly, it smiled and led me to dew-licked leaves that lovingly carpeted a hidden path. A path that was as charming as if it had been cobbled but as wildly and irresistibly formidable as a serpent snaking it's way to some downy prey. It was called The Path Less Travelled. Like the dress of a temptress revealing one pale freckled shoulder, the road allowed a teasing glimpse of Adventure, shrouded tantalizingly in a blurry outline of mist. Fools are everywhere. Some dare to touch whirling stars. Others dare to walk on the most scandalous road they had ever laid eyes on. They all catch fire eventually.

If only the frying pan hadn't been so boring, one wouldn't be tempted to jump!

Alas, jump I did, tumbling crookedly down into the pages of this wonderful, magical book, giggling madly. From one page to another I hopped, tasting the whirlwind of Romance, running my tongue over the dagger of Philosophy. I had to dance in the lap of a sky the color of wet wildcat fur before I was allowed to fall down the rabbit hole. Landing in the arms of a stranger named Thriller who kissed criminally well, I gave myself up to ecstasy. An ocean of genres surrounded me, and I intended to taste them all. Comedy and Tragedy were old friends travelling on a road parallel to mine, Tragedy waved cheerfully back at me and Comedy glowered menacingly. Mystery was an old man who smiled at me in feeble delight when I came to visit. His daughter was the bewitching Young Adult, dressed in a dispassionate white dress that hugged her curves alluringly. Before I could reach out and touch her, the vision evaporated, leaving me with a bittersweet aftertaste and the promise of more. I was forced to clamber back into the frying pan as the earth beneath my feet lurched threateningly.

I flew back home in the frying pan, smiling with the knowledge that this was one fire I would get to leap into again quite soon.