A puzzle for the soul archeologist

Puzzled archeologists

Do we have to die to be reassembled?

Exhibitionist? My sweet child, exhibit yourself in hall A under the ancient flag, flowing above, right next to the fossils of dead Ichthyosaur that have been reassembled by learned scientists with books and maps that lead the way. Do we have to die to be reassembled, have all our parts labeled and numbered, spread out on a mat to puzzle the soul archeologist? Will he be gentle? Will he pick up the most fragile, crumbling bones with his special tweezers, the long kind, that reach deep into dark recesses? Then he will glue us all back together again. Ah, the glue, the plaster glue that will remake you. Doctor, Doctor, glue me please. I seem to have fallen apart, all into tiny little pieces and I just don’t know how to piece myself back together again. In fact I’m quite afraid the scavengers will sneak up and steal a bone or two, to gnaw on, and drool as they watch some empty sitcom on the fat couch, dripping bits of me-juice down the chin and wiping me-greasy fingers on the dirty upholstery. Doctor, Doctor, please reassemble me in the right way. It seems that some parts of me have a will of their own. They’re quite antsy really. I’m trying as hard as I can to keep them down, patient to your coming…. but they’re starting to push and shove and demand to be let out. One of them told me just the other day that if I don’t make myself a better home for them to live in, she’s leaving. She will leave right out. Won’t even stop to turn around and check on how the rest of us are getting on without her. She’s got her ticket, she said. The Doctoress gave it to her. She had her label and number exchanged in for that ticket, the long ride across the country. She says she’s not afraid at all. Has never been afraid of being alone really. Even with us, she never felt like family, always felt distant and alone. But now she’s leaving, off in a huff. I say Doctor, Doctor, why won’t you reassemble more quickly? They’re all rebelling now. I saw them talking in angry whispers, glaring back at me, defiant. How dare I try to rally them under some ancient, molding flag, pinned and labeled, exhibit 2R4D, the myriad me. I tell you Doc, they’ve got that look in their eyes. As she left, wiping the dust from her frock and brushing the hair from her eyes, they all envied, a bit scared, but so ready to follow. I heard one tender child ask her where she would go, how would she eat, where would she sleep. At this, she hesitated. Not the worry, but the pull. To not leave behind the child, bereft. She stopped a moment, leant down and kissed the tiny, soft corner of her mouth, sliding her lips to the awaiting ear, she whispered “There is a hidden place beyond, where many gather in pieces. The dry heated air sweeps the dirt by at regular intervals. That is where I will go. That is where we reassemble as meant to be, not as a puzzled intrigue for the curious well-wishers who add bits and pieces day by workday, as they ponder the meaning of their own lives. That is where I will go. And you can follow, dear child. But it is far, far away, and you will tire of the road. You will long for the reassurance of the Doctoress and her bespectacled interest. But it is with me that you will find truth. Come.” They all look on in wonder. “She’s really leaving! Taking the child with her too!” And how long will I wait under this false flag for the the reassembling? One day, two days, the visitors stopping by and glimpsing at the work in progress. How long will I wait? As the Doctoress tickles my bits and pieces and sends off screaming, scraping agony as she misses the beat, cuts right into raw flesh left behind by the separating. How long must I wait? Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave us. We will follow. I trust you now. I know where I’ve gone wrong. Please don’t leave me behind. We will all come. We will all come to the dry, hidden place, where the air sweeps the dust by. We will march the long road and ponder placement as we walk steadily. I cannot stay behind, to be labeled and pinned, exhibit 2R4D. She’s been putting me back together all skewed. I even think one eye is on backwards, constantly looking gloomily within. There’s an ear that has been placed on the hip too, so close to the entrails it is awash in the inner turmoil, rumblings, day in and day out. This is all off. All off. We’re quite a mess really. Come on guys, it’s now or never. She says she’s leaving and she knows where to. Those who stay behind become exhibit 2R4D, paused and posed for eternity, next to the ancient fossilized amoeba. Those who remain will only feel the air of the opening and closing doors, as it breezes in on the stale flag when the visitors come to take a non-interested glance at the unfinished work. Don’t stay behind. It is a sterile room to lock oneself in. You are far better off on the road to the hidden place where the air sweeps the dust by, and the pieces gather to discuss the world of possibilities in the joining. The meeting place, she knows of it. And she’s taken the child.


About wilhelminatunnels

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