Makers

How will I dance the dances of the ages if I don’t dance?
We have stayed underground so long, our complexions have become pale like the flesh of mushrooms. We paint the cave walls, the tunnels, caverns and byways of the collective subconsciousness with the click clack of pressed buttons and alphanumeric keys.
Our cave paintings are digital, like the visions of dreams, they disappear when the machine harboring them changes states. Sometimes they are made physical, on fibers that may last for 100 years, displayed not in caves but in places of commerce, buildings with uncertain futures. Monkeys dreaming their own dreams and whispering into the ear of their digital demons with that click, clack, click, clack, pausing to sip the grinds of botanicals steeped in hot water, ignore what hangs behind their heads, waiting for that 100 years to surrender it to decay.
With our click, clack we exhibit our mastery over maya through words unuttered, rarely spared ink, strung along the cave walls where only those who click, clack, there way in with a search that unearths a matching key will find them.
Of those that find them, how many will pause to read them?
How many fewer will let them burrow deep so that they may tangle with their own roots, let the words speak directly with what dangles beneath associations, far below the intellectual surface?
Of those that seek, that find, and that commune freely, how many will perpetuate the experience; begin to paint caves themselves?
If I meet a woman of knowledge in the desert what will I do with her?
I will dance if she dances, sing if she sings, thread beads if she threads beads… I will let what she does penetrate to the core, let it graft on to what already sprouts from my own deep.
When I return I might dance, or I might click, clack, the click, clack, click, of ages.
One day all of the artifacts will be gone.
Will the thing that passed through the makers still live?
Only if there are some willing to leave the safety of consuming that they may become makers.