Wilderness Cabin

The weight of an illusion.

Wherever I walk there is weight: that of gravity and the heavier one of the collective psyche. Towns, cities, and countryside are all covered by the same wilderness. Not an inch of concrete or stainless steel or glass can escape it. In my wandering, I encountered gastropods and whales, but few wolves. Survival of the fittest has been applied differently in this wilderness. Searching amidst the ruins of civilization for the sun to break through the thickly shrouded canopy one day, I saw a warmly lit cabin.

Its boards were dark and rich, glowing with inner life; past it flowed a small stream that fed a lush covering of grass looking as fine as a Persian rug. Quaint lamp posts with elegant scroll work that ran their lengths lined a dark brick walk up to an inviting doorway. Smoke rose from the stone chimney softly in white cotton puffs. Home! I thought, and ran eagerly to cross the small bridge over the stream. But just before reaching it, I felt myself immobile as if mired in some unseen glue. I willed my body to move and it would by tiny degrees but no more. My mind and limbs began to lapse into a comforting lethargy, dreamlike and painless. Only by a massive force of will did I wrench free, falling back on the stony ground.

This, then, was that grand illusion many sought; the last in a dead world. I wished to destroy it, but it acted as a kind of invincible battery that provided enough life for my kind to hold hope in their hearts. I dusted myself off and moved on, not knowing why or to where.