The topographer measuring all her elevations. The peaks and valleys. The scars in the landscape created by seismic shifts. Precipitous mountains forged from colliding tectonics depriving you of oxygenated breaths once ascended. Raging rivers threatening to overrun. Halcyon estuaries abundant with life, purifying turbid waters that flow to the sea. Tranquil lakes to dip your toes in. All the juxtapositions. Every contour line carefully accounted for. All the coordinates meticulously plotted. But you’d still lose your way amongst the tempestuous terrain.
The cartographer scrapping the unfinished map. Scenic routes planned out but never taken. Boundaries drawn and delineated, but these confines can’t contain her. In 50 years the landscape will look different. Let time do what it’ll do. The reluctant explorer left directionless save for a finely tuned moral compass. Locations left unknown. Unceded territories never usurped or excavated. Unconquerable kingdoms left hidden and pristine, the treasures inside never purloined by trembling hands. One life to live, two ways to get there. Two roads diverged — one got frosty. Stay the course then. All roads lead home.
The photographer capturing every angle. A provocative aesthetic loosely wrapped under maternal instincts. Every pose the same, yet somehow chameleonic. Secrets held captive behind the eyes. All her colours on display like that rainbow on the horizon. Just a momentary distraction caused by a refraction of light. See that shine? Get close enough, and it will lose its lustre. Blue eyes desaturated, now flickering grey. A faulty aperture infringing the light.
The epigrapher studying her written words and their attached intentions. Deciphering ancient scripts like Ogham inscribed on stones. Texts paying homage to Brigid, the tripartite deity rife with contradictions. Bless the water, dance in the fire, make fertile the land. Meandering mind like a seer, a penchant for prophecy and predestined outcomes. Druids worshipping at the oak tree. Poets seeking a muse to put a fire in the head.
The autobiographer with ink in her veins. A spiritual outflow from soul to steady hands.
The story? Hers alone to write.
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