coordinates

Like pinpoints on a map, I search for intersections in which I might encounter the strange. I perceive the world through a series of vortexes and leylines. With that comes a sort of ambling blindness for the present in pursuit of a foggy and distant future to which I might escape. Through this, I find escape has always been my objective. 

A documentary projected onscreen about the lost libraries of Timbuktu plays, shrill intonations and dialogue between people with British accents are not enough to rouse the somnambulant students in attendance. I wonder if I were to find myself in the desert, would I even realize I was there? or would my presence be sand underfoot in pursuit of an oasis that is the conceived construct of future? I dig my heels in the desert of my mind, yet with every door to a room I enter I am aware of ten different mental exits. 

It's a terrible, hindering habit I find myself guilty of. Even in research, I hoard and collect books, always in the mindset of covet, yet I never read from my accumulating piles. I'm sure if I were to do some type of jungian self exploration I would find an endless but decrepit library, or a less romantic image of filing cabinets. 

The strange orange cat sits at the counter, poised like a gargoyle upon our entry. His gaze is quizzical and unreadable as we pet his blonde coat before departing to an aisle of CDs. 

"any Radiohead?" I teased, picking up a Depeche Mode CD. 

"No, none for me today." my friend remarked morosely. 

The cat weaves between the "country" genre position, nimble footed over the spines of the CD covers to pursue our attention once more.