I hear someone who follows me, sobbing to me
With a sad voice rotted by time.
Whenever my mind travels, and it travels frequently, I sense a parallel presence sashaying in time with my mental opusculums. It is an agitation awakening dormant sepia shadows, a pickle invading a cabbage patch, a persona non grata mirroring every mental gymnastic. I jump high, it jumps low. I smile, it frowns. I feel joy, it struts sadness. I dance happy, it swings melancholy.
Fifteen hours in an aeroplane without an entertainment system and too nauseated by the stench of airline slop to eat, I dove into the labyrinth absent Ariadne and chased the presence in and out of mile-deep canyons. Over hill. Over dale. Spelunking in my history, caving in my future until I looked into the water of my present to see the demon reflected in my own eyes.