I wrote this the other day, it kind of just fell out of me. I liked it though, and wasn’t sure what to do with it, so I put it here. I’m sure we’ve all had those moments when we realize things were never what we thought they would be. Not in a bad way, but sometimes you have to dig deeper in life and see below what’s happening on the surface of things. I consider this an acquired skill, an art. Some people may be born with an amazing sense of self-realization. I think I’ve had to struggle a bit harder for my own. I don’t know if this is poetry, it doesn’t feel like it. I think prose but I’m not sure, I just got recently introduced to the subject of prose so I’m not entirely sure.
Cabin in the Woods
The devil, I’m sure, is nothing more than a bearded man with tattoos. He can build things, like a gigantic log cabin in the woods. He may take you there some day, ask you to stay. You agree. As you pass through the exterior of the porch you start to see that the cabin has no flooring, only dirt. The water coming from the tap is brown and murky. There is no furnace, just a stack of old crates and some matches. He smiles at you, shrugs:
“Welcome home baby.”
(Well, you think. Maybe this isn’t so bad, just a bit chilly, not really well lit…)
The longer you live there the more you realize that there is no cabin at all. Just you sitting out in the woods. But even further still there are no woods, not a tree in sight, no forest animals.
(This is where it really gets weird folks)
The devil is actually you,
The landscape is only your fear,
And nobody lives in the non-cabin in the non-woods.