The border is of the strangest metaphysical nature, thought Purple, as she considered her imminent crossing into that 'other' place. In what substance could it be said to exist?
Certainly, it might be heard in the melodic variations of a familiar song, discerned in the pattern of a girl's skirt, and even in the unfamiliar inflection of an aroma emanating from a village kitchen. But in the man pacing at the invisible threshold? Does it reside in me or is it in you, this thing between us?
Purple knew the crossing wouldn't be easy. Others regularly tried and failed. A week prior, Purple had kneeled at Jing'An Temple. A temple old as the Three Kingdoms, it had suffered relocation and rebuilding, and during the Cultural Revolution became a plastics factory. But the temple stood once again, unsullied, and Purple new that her prayers would be answered.
To Heraclitus, you could not step twice into the same river. And Theseus wondered if his ship, built anew plank by plank, remained truly his? What can be mourned, if everything stands to be regained?
Time and space, space and time. Purple, laughed. What can a border possibly mean in an eternal kingdom? Westerners mistakenly
believe that in the East, time is circular, but in the West, it runs forward. However it is not like this at all. The West and their stupid Occidentalist obsessions. Ever yone agrees, time is merely the stuff of water.
Purple crossed over. Stealth was just an old habit by now, but she knew to remember to remain cautious. She could hear the Toyota approaching as the sounds on their radio of Mao Wong, the King Cat, got louder. As she sat down, she barely nodded to her entourage. She was so tired. And by the time she would awake, they would be by the port, and she would be at the ocean.