Do not fret, for I have never seen Vesuvius either – thus far, we are equals. (Although that fantasy quickly crumbles apart.)
You write of Death so freely and it makes me wonder how you must perceive the whole ordeal. Is it your past, present, and future? Everything and nothing at the same time?
Does it surround you on all sides – pressing into your already corseted figure – crawl through the twisted canals of your ears and finally drift its way into your nose, glide down towards your cavernous lungs?
When you look up from the table, what is it that you see – or, instead, who is it that you see?
“I am a river,” you say to me and gleefully run off to find the ridges that will bolster you when the time comes to submit to Tethys and become your winding, watery, infinite self.
Now it is my turn to claim my existence. I am not like you; the river does not embody me. Maybe I’m destined to become a lake, or a pond. I feel that I am the water that holds the spotted salamanders and gives life to dragonflies and tadpoles. There are sturdy rocks and pebbles that line my shores, and the cattails choose to make their home alongside my waters. I am a Naiad, but a Limnad in that. I am not a river; I am the cool depths of a deep lake. I am the water that bursts with life.
To feel the succulence of strawberries, you should know it only comes from the real kind, not the large, unflavored berries you can so easily find in the market. One bite of those enticingly dark pink fruits and soon enough disappointment follows, swooping its way into the cave of your open & hungry mouth.
You'll need to wait patiently alongside your own bush of strawberries to know what I mean, allowing the fruits to turn that lush, red color as slowly as they wish. Give your berries time; let them have space to fill as they grow.
You won't know the sweet, bright flavor of wild strawberries in summer until you stumble across a flowery bush of them taking refuge near the shaded forest line.
The Labyrinth is now all I am; my entire being exists within these twisted marble walls. Sometimes I wonder if I am not more than another turn in the unending pathways of this place. Yet I am unsure of how long ago it began, this fusing of myself and The Labyrinth. I feel that many days, or maybe even years, have passed since that one terrible evening, though I will never guess how long it has been. Time is fluid within The Labyrinth. There is neither day nor night, moon nor sun. Only memories.