The Unfathomed Crossings

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She was neither a man nor a woman, a girl at her mid-days to many, never but one in her thoughts. Nobody knew her big secret. As a shift-shaper to some fantasy world, this girl was a person-shifter; any time she’d walk over the crossing, a new person gets inside her head. Not that she totally lost herself; she was like a driver on the devil’s highway, stopping at any hitchhiker she met. And the moment that another person got inside that driving interior of this girl’s unfathomed head, there’s always a story she’d listen, as one patient and passionate traveler.

Not that she totally enjoyed her person-shiftings; not that they always were interesting and harmless. After all, another person would get off her carriage, taking his living and troubles away, forgetting her; whereas she remembered. Any single person come and go she remembered. There was a cemetery of thoughts inside her head, almost already at its full capacity. Which is why this girl now avoided any crossings. Quite successfully, until this day.


The First one Crossing is a trigger to a gun
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The streets were busy, swarming. At every corner there debated quarrels. At every semaphore there disputed the buzz. A working building of countless alveoli, a hallway at the school-break, a recruitment office at the hours of grunting interviews. The streets were  buzzing; modulated sounds from screams to roars were distracting this girl. Struggling with bedlam of unnecessary judgment and perverted moral of unnerving infantile grown-up, this girl found herself at the crossing, and the busyfied buzzing got in…

“Oi, gal, what’s yer taking in’ere?”
“I am whimsical, if you pretend to bee here or just love the buzzing?”

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That bee choked her buzzes on thistles,
On the 29th day of the moon.






The Second Crossing is a writer’s lucky charm
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Lost in the cemetery of her distressing thoughts, this girl walked down the river path, through the lazy woods, bitter of suppressed desires and bleakness. The trees bent away from the old and rusty, as if had survived some warfare, trailer (no vehicles around). Many a beer cans and empty liquor bottles made the lawn, a fancy steel’n’glass design for frenziness. Not a sound. Even the woods stood numb before that place, as if some wicked force was pushing anything alive out whatever lived or rot inside the trailer. This girl wanted to get back, when she realized, she’s already too close. That trailer perched right at the crossing of the wild paths. Before she could even turn back, its door opened…

“Hei, lass. Fancy a drink with aarrgh writer?”
“I am whimsical, if you are out of thirst, what would you drink then?”    

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That writer shifted to his ardent hunger,
To the 29th days of the moon.


The Third one Crossing is a roughly tossing
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This girl used to live in a city of an urban style. No woods at all. So, her thoughts were confused, while the cemetery whispered that everything before was real. She totally forgot her errands, or whatever she was supposed to do with her life, in her life, this particular day. In the assemblage of reconstructing the beginning of her this, which started with her eyes wide open, obviously, this girl ran into the hobo, lying peacefully in petrol blood. A lonesome road of many-sized pebbles underneath. His eyes, bright to the sky, purpled and perplexed. That hobo seemed serene, but his body was shaking, as if he was holding too much in himself, yet would never reveal. This girl was aware, humans didn’t bleed petrol, so she decided to pass. But the moment she stepped into the pebbles of blackness, this girl saw that this hobo, his body itself formed the crossing. And that derelict spoke…

“Why are you passing me by? I’m heavy in petrol, wanting for the sky…”
“I am whimsical, if it’s not you, but your sky, which is heavy in petrol?”
   
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That derelict now bled with sapphire almonds,
When the 29th day of the moon.



The Fourth is the Crossing of oath, and radiant sun
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“Hop in.”
“Wait, do I know you?”

Straight from the cemetery of thoughts, unsettled in whatever person-shifting she was recovering from, this girl could remember but one thing: the crossing with the mirror cube, four-sided. The forth crossing at the only day. She walked inside, right through the glass, when realizing that being a carriage, as it started moving. Yet the road in front looked disturbingly still. The first time this girl was not the one who’s driving. That girl, beside her, looked familiar; almost herself, but more indulgent and devoted, even her driving was profound, when being extreme. That girl chuckled. This girl rebelled. 

“Who are you to be staging at my place and driving me where?”
“I am whimsical, if you could really be the one who’s driving, are you staging anywhere?”
 
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That girl put a cigar out this’ beauty yet unspotted spot,
Through the 29th days of the moon.