When the weary traveler comes to the top of the Misty Mountain, he seeth a town that doesn’t exist. He seeth a town that, risen from the ashes of the heaven, lay there aloof from the world.
The cold seems to evaporate as he sets a foot in the town. The road diverges until it is nothing but an outline of a tree that doesn’t exist.
With the rising impatience, the traveler opens a door to the nearest house.
And he enters a room that seems to imitate his home in his earlier life. And he finds another door.
It leads to a room that seems to imitate the earlier room. And door after door and room after room, he gets stuck in the fantastical labyrinth that swallows him to the heart of the city.
In the city that doesn’t exist, he walks with his feet barren, with his clothes removed to the lake he thinks he has seen.
And the water that touches his body, is not really water but the grass that merely imitated the color of the sky.
The traveler moves ahead, naked, in search of water that doesn’t seem to exist.
And when his feet touch the damp surface, he cries with surprise at the endless desert. It is the lake that imitates the color of the mountain.
In that bath, that gives him immense relief, he gets stuck in the fantastical labyrinth that leaves him to the depth of the city.
And as he rises from the brown water, he seeth a thousand faces staring at him.
He seeth the faces, but the faces seemed to miss him.
In the city that doesn’t exist, each face imitates the other. The rolls of marijuana offered to the traveler don’t seem to work.
The traveler walks on the road that imitates the tree that doesn’t exist, in search of something that he doesn’t remember.
The places he travels, don’t exist.
The corners he takes right at, seem to merge into the oblivion when he looks back.
And through corners that force him to change his path, he gets stuck in the fantastical labyrinth that prompts him to ask.
So, he asks himself, what is the purpose of his visit? What is it that he seeks but cannot find?
On the streets that do not exist, he realizes his purpose. He looks up at the tall mountain and shouts, the angels have brought me here. To get rid of my monsters.
In the city, where no man listens to him, he walks and walks. From one labyrinth to the other, he travels.
In the labyrinth of time, where each moment imitates the previous one, he goes round and round through eternity.
He knows now that moments do not exist in this city, yet he fails to get an answer.
The traveler fails to get rid of his monsters. Because he doesn’t understand, oh reader, he doesn’t understand,
That in this Spinoza’s town, the moment he gets rid of his monsters,
he’d lose his angels, too.
Note: The last line features one of my favorite quotes by Tennessee Williams, If we got rid of our demons, we’d lose our angels.