The Cerberus Corridor

Fools lost at sea. People blink around at empty oceans, and fill them with impossible floating buildings. Gnashing and biting till my bonds were broken, I drank twelve or so potions forcing myself onward through smaller and smaller entrances. A forgetful procession of mazes covered in moss and seaweed lead further into dismal notions. Three pathways stood before me. Each entrance dripped with a routing misrepresentation. Each could lead to my death. Mendacity filled the dank, stale air. A satyr stood before me, a lute in one hand and a spyglass in the other. His eyes pleaded with me for assistance. I had to choose a path.

The left path was cold, but brightly lit. It was well traveled, old and stale. I stared down the path. I could feel a gazing tower covered in millions of eyes. Bright rings pulsing with light wrapped around the tower. The light reveled countless rooms stacked atop of one another in a circular fashion surrounding the tower. I entered one. It was neat, well organized and clean. The furniture looked Victorian in the dim lamp light. A spiral staircase of musty tomes grew out of the floorboards leading upward. It was simple logic to follow the steps ever upward. I entered countless rooms each seemingly less stable than the last. The walls cracked and crumbled the higher I went. Soon, I was crawling up the staircase, grasping at tomes falling out of place. I watched as they tumbled down below. I saw the rooms below me being to crumble and crack. They became a sort of polystyrene blend and began to burn. The million eyes gazed through the burning mass. This gaze was potent and encompassing, yet lacked prudence and compassion. The light was brilliant and enticing, but I fell through the burning mass and back into the dark room. 

The Satyr stood, now holding a pencil in one hand and a bottle in the other. His eyes begged I make a decision, as if his freedom depended on my very choice. I looked down the right path. This one was warm and dark. A women stood before me over at black pool of liquid. I looked down as I too stood on this black substance. She invited me to come closer. She was ever more enticing than the light from the left; that feigned stability. She stepped backwards and further down, sinking slowly into the abyssal fluid. I followed. It was warm and soothing, this pool of absolute darkness. When I hesitated, she kissed my cheek luring me ever deeper. Promises of golden splendor whispered past my ear. Soon, I was submerged. We stared into one another’s eyes for days and then decades. I broke into separate pieces, each one loosing any sense of consistency. Coherent timelines dissolved and history was a folly mess. My being was completely lost into a deafening silence. My ears ringing, I reassembled bored and confused in the dark room.

The Satyr still stood, holding fire in one hand, and clay in the other. I looked down the center path.  The million eyes and rooms seemed minuscule, and the abyssal pool childish. I felt  the meaning of possibility. Endless settings appeared and dissolved. A constant crafting and destruction. A real serious play wrought with potential. A hammering productivity for desires sake alone. The arranging and rearranging was hard to follow. As soon as I had found order there was again chaos. Infinite swarms of colored fractals manipulated time and space around me. My mind was hazy and still confused, yet I felt a glimmer of hope. I had faith in a small warmth that resided somewhere distant, yet always closer. This was absolute absurdity, yet it was comforting. Truly, this was the most amazing sensation. My mind once again returned to the dark room. The walls still covered in seaweed, the Satyr stood, his hands now empty.

I stared back at the Satyr rejecting his eye’s plea. My own eyes were wide. Gritting my teeth, I lunged towards the gatekeeper. The instant I struck him to the ground he vanished. He again stood before me. His eyes continued to beg me to choose. Resisting anger, I sat down in front of the Satyr. I closed my eyes and refused his gaze. I pictured an old wooden bridge with rot iron railing losing the constant battle between itself and rust. A shallow tributary ran beneath the bridge. Leaning on the rust I stood patiently facing forward. A bend in the river made it so I could not see upstream. The water I could see was rough and had slight rapids, yet calm enough to walk through. I turned around, and leaned on the other side of the bridge. The water was clear and calm. Further down this way a tree had fallen, a blue heron stood gazing into the stream. I assumed he was fishing.