They say that there is a well at the centre of everything.  And around the edge of it is a heaven so fair that no one would ever choose to leave it. 

The grass was warm.  He curled his fingers into it but he didn’t open his eyes. He could feel the thoughts crawling around him, whispering, pulling at him, and he moaned with the taste of them, still so sweet on his lips.

For some, salvation came blazing like an ark, screaming redemption from the jewelled citadels of a distant Jericho. For others it carved out majestic towers, archives of knowledge that catalogued a prescribed progress in the same bright scrolls of rescue. But for him it had always come softly. A sad, familiar kiss that told of the ending of the story.

He knew it didn’t matter, that form was only the lure to draw the fly. Because everyone came willingly to the place where the wise ones met. He had seen them too, leading their own disciples to that same wasteland, spewing out their heroin rhetoric in million bloodied standards, each carried high as gods in the guided cages and circus posters of ruin.

Because this was also the place where wisdom came to die.

He had been drawn back here so many times, back to the well and back to the source. And it had been something once, a cheap and glittering pathway of front row seats that led all the way to the sweet summer meadows. But he had become lost in the finding, and there was a longing that wouldn’t leave him.  A place deep inside the well, that called him home.

‘The one who starts the journey doesn’t get to finish it,’ his teacher had said before he pushed him in.

The earth shifted beneath his fingers, it was the only constant in this dreamland of the damned. And everything, everything burned in the fall.

They say that there is a well at the centre of everything.  And around the edge of it is a heaven so fair that no one would ever choose to leave it. 

 

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