It used to be that I loved imaginary maps in story books. With my finger, I would trace their coastlines, their borders between kingdoms; I would dream myself away.
These days, I find worlds in the dust from old volumes of forgotten poetry. In the rush of the wind, the solemnity of hills. With the song of a swallow, the broken word of a woman at the end of her life, the emptiness of what once was a college classroom. People say fantasy and fairytales are escapism, but I wonder why they believe we're in one place to begin with. This world is full of worlds.
(And perhaps our selves are infact a whole raft of selves, bound together by our soul.)
art by the incomparable mirjana appelhof