Up with Women, Down with Men

Something subliminal in a Tennessee airport.

The Importance of Being Madeline

There is a maze, an infinite system of conveyor belts. Upon each rides a single soul, its journey throughout all that is known and unknown: ever changing, never changing. The conveyor pulls a soul closer at times to another soul, or to another conveyor belt, the soul of which is further along the path, or further behind. At times a soul and a soul become close, reaching over the sides, embracing, loving, cherishing each and every moment together. But the conveyor moves on, along its never-ending path to nowhere in particular, or somewhere none can imagine, or back to where it has already traveled. It pulls souls apart, tosses them together, seemingly mindlessly going about its chore, unfeeling, unmoved by emotion, unchanging in its ever-present duties.

A soul is a fragile thing, like thin glass in a neighbourhood of young boys playing baseball. It knows the danger it is in, yet it hangs there, in the sill, daring the baseball to crash into it. Giving the world the proverbial finger. As long as that glass remains whole it is invincible.

Souls embrace, move away from each other, meet again, lose each other forever. So we dance on, through this world of emptiness, moving our feet, to the restless beat.