Words and Worlds bubble up inside of me, sending into this vale of tears a froth of undiscovered joys and hurts. My voice is husky and low, a rasp of fervor in the onslaught of ink staining the paper, the rattle of keys and the blinking of the monitor.
Each day is recorded, every sorrow, every happiness, every tear, every kiss. We sit around a bonfire, spinning dreams from smoke and staring into the inky midnight blue of the hazy sky. Blood and tears and ink run together like water through the creak, through our veins. Coughs and laughter and sobs puntuate our stories as though they are pulling forth pieces of us to steal them away into the night as they are told. Blue jeans and band shirts is the dress code, shoes optional.
We stare into the cherry core and breathe, eyes focused on the swirling smoke that rises into the night, lost like a story that never was told. Every memory is the potential for an epic, and every night we sit and retell stories we have told and heard a thousand times until the words flow sweeter than honey and smoother than silk, each single syllable imprinted upon us like a barcode. Souls are searched and ripped apart and mingles with other scraps until we are all just one patchwork soul, moving and working and living and creating as one. Your breath is my breath, my tears are your tears, his work is our work.
We are constantly fighting forward in this legendary battle of wills in which no one will ever win for fear of missing the chance to argue over right and wrong, and the difference between realities. We curl close together, like a pile of puppies or a commune of lovers and family, and try to push away the disasters and the failings, try to wrap around ourselves acceptance and beauty.
Our creations stand gaurd at the edge of this reality, keeping us safe from the world, a place where words and paint and notes don't hold sway and a place where no amount of star gazing can keep you warm at night, and tree badgers don't exist. We are delicate you see, despite the facade of renegade rebels and freedom fighters.
We need a film of prose and sarcasm just to keep us safe from one another, and claws still bombard us, rip into us and separate sheep from the herd. The water boils over, bubbling green and thick, and all around us all is black and no candle or lamp or imagined sun can light the way to redemption and safety.
Perhaps not all is lost, but we are, and the truth long since buried and forgotten. Too bad an Ego blocks the door to the tomb, and that the key is beneath the docks of the lake, where mist surrounds our tiny island of stagnation.