#2105

Where are you?

A small, pale light moving in the darkness, a plane flying at night in dense fog or heavy cloud. A search plane, perhaps, or an aircraft far from its intended course. Far from civilization.

Where are you?

Long line of the dark tops of evergreen trees, framed against a darker night sky.

Where are you?

A satellite, or some similar distant light, moving forward in its unchanging orbit.

Where are you?

A flickering light, brighter than the candles, to the left and beyond the darkness. Flames? Fire? No, a distraction. A trick. Not real. Focus.

Where. Are. You?

A woman’s face, chin dark as if tattooed. Snow? Sedna?

Where are you?

Alaska?

Where are you?

Dyatlov Pass?

Where are you?
Are you lost?
Are you trapped?
Are you hiding?

A ring of evergreen trees, a clearing or the edge of a forest, seen from below as if by someone laying on the ground. Dark on dark, waiting forest, heavy sky, untouched wilderness.

I will find you regardless. I. Will. Find. You.

Darkness. Silence. Nothing.

Where are you?
Where. Are. You?
WHERE ARE YOU?

Exhaustion.

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#1678

Don’t tell me what happened to Amelia Earhart, D. B. Cooper, or the crew of the Mary Celeste. I don’t want to know.
Don’t explain why there are stairs in the middle of nowhere or plane-hungry triangles out at sea, rows of lights in the sky or holy faces appearing in rock, plaster, linoleum, clouds. I don’t want to know.
Don’t try to convince me The Wreck of the Titan was just some crazy coincidence or that famous black and white picture just a grainy snapshot of a floating log. Let some of the mysteries remain.
Let people disappear without a trace; let the wilderness swallow up whole ships, planes, settler communities, and leave behind only a word carved into a tree to prove they ever existed.
Let Tutankhamen’s curse sleep in infamy. Let the Chupacabra skulk through Mexican jungles. Let the Flying Dutchman live to haunt another day.
Is it so bad, not to know the truth?