The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 118
Maybe some people lie all the time. Maybe others tell the truth all the time. Probably, most of us pick and choose. But, see, if I’m a homicide dick and my prime suspect, the husband, says: “I didn’t kill her. I loved her. I could never kill her,” the only part I’m likely to believe is the “I didn’t kill her” part. All the love thing means is crazy, unpredictable emotion. And “never” is bullshit.
We were insane romantics, Juliette and I. Such is the nature of the Manipura. Torn between up and down. Stuck in a dream train station forever exchanging an eastbound ticket for a westbound, then south, north, until reckless intent floats off like a whiff of pipe smoke and you step back from the platform, walk through the echoing corridors and out on to the street as you were meant to all along.
My truth, I finally realized, was solitude.
This time no human voice begged me to wake up as I floated sideways through fat green ferns, under purple and pink polka-dotted mushrooms, past smiling snails, a giggling red ladybug—a black heart painted on her back
—over damp, pine needle packed earth
and glistening stones...
Hell, it was identical to the place I’d tell my cats about sometimes when we’d cuddle, splashed with that same dazzling rainbow at forest’s edge. The only thing missing was the Princess from the nearby castle who’d arrive each day carrying a basket of meat under her arm.
The other missing element was the rolling meadows beyond the forest, sprinkled—I’d tell my cats—with wildflowers as far as the eye could see.
Here the rainbow vaporized as I flew closer, and the forest—our perpetual refuge—ended abruptly, falling off into black space.