House of Mystery

In the house of mystery, dreamers enter the fold. It is a world of myriads. Of what-ifs. Undulating layers. In the house of mystery, expect no answers. None are forthcoming. In the house of mystery, dreamers will experience cataclysmic inversions. Your world will be shaken up. Your world.

In the house of mystery, there are no mirrors. Yet, everywhere, reflections. You do not know which reflections belong to you, which belong to others. It is a sorting out process. A sifting. Remember: no answers. Still, you sort. You sift. It feels important to determine who or what is the source of these reflections.

 The house of mystery is lots of things. Its ambitions and the forms it assumes depends on the dreamer. It is a labyrinth. A sarcophagus. Deep, dark woods. Imagine going into a basement, and there, expecting that you will still be inside a house, the house which you imagined was connected to the basement, but no, you feel the cold air, you sense the night (the way the night grows multitudes of fingers that play broken rhythms on your skin, softly, softly) … you have descended into a basement only to come out in deep, dark woods.

Then you remember her eyes. They were the same deep dark green as the forest. Her eyes were the green of fables. Of fairy tales. You know she is motherless and fatherless, the nameless intermediary and fragile constitution between the moon and tides.

In the house of mystery, no answers, never answers, yet there is knowing. There are revelations. Uncoverings. You already know. You made a pact with the Sphinx centuries ago. Silence favors its motives. Ring a bell?

You have never left this place. Do not let your incarnation fool you. The illusions which prove the greatest threat to understanding are your own. Don’t fall for your own bullshit. The house of mystery requires no mirrors. Mirrors are liars. They prevaricate. It is the nature of the mirror to do so. Naturally, organically, the mirror misleads. It diverts. There are mirrors that are not mirrors at all, they are bewitching pools, or so they have been called, but they were issued the negative connotation of “bewitching” because people grew to fear looking within … in that way.

The house of mystery brings you back. It gives you a chance. It knows that imagination is mostly daring, and innocence. With daring and innocence you can see a lot. You can perceive with clearer clarity.

Trust no mirrors. Especially the ones that project themselves as absolute, or correct … the final word. The house of mystery will always be there, mirrorless and without answers. It is the temple for dreamers and mystics. Dare to enter, innocently.  

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
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