By the Albatross: Thank the Night
Creative / Writing. Conscious / Stumbling.
I was once learned in the foundations of abstract personification. Often obtuse and contrived but built within a raw ability that is not fully established. Yet. I’ve done little with it. A cage for a bird with no wings.
There are no walls to climb or ideas to fumble through like a rolodex to my very existence. Rather the noise and self-doubt that seeps through every fabric and sinew. Neuron passage. Trembling.
The void of white intoxicates me. The hiss of its forked tongue. I disappear from whatever reality I reside and tumble down a dark well of disillusionment. I am no good; my peers are things of legend. The king of a depreciating Valhalla.
Every morning I wake, a mask is chosen. See me as I wish to be seen. Feint of hand, disguise the tremble. Mask the purpose. Hide the face that speaks with no volume.
Sincere enjoyment of others happiness. However, do not forget to depreciate. Take your pills. Swallow your uncertainty, for it helps the doubt grow. Do whats best for the greater self-erosion. Like a mule, I carry the burden of one’s self and the toil passed down by those who are entrenched by their own exasperation.
It begins with a small puncture. A deep growl volleys a rebuttal. The seeping of light, broadcasting something more. The shadows are only puppets and the shackles are my own hands clinging to what is known. My eyes could see but they could not anatomize that which surrounds me. The blindness wears thin and something calls.
Seemingly endless stairs…rise…to meet a doorway that sings sweetly. A desire overcomes and the yearning to know commits treason against what was old. Learning to walk again, a trial only accomplished by hardened soles. The crutch of smooth stone walls, they tell the story of many friends and their experiences of similar fate. They speak with a faint whistle, as the wind whispers its destination. Follow and you shall know.
Doorway. The Wilde notions begin to beat their solemn drum. The luminescence guides a weary sole. The cloying sent of dew, building formations prior to the break of reveille. Dreams of dreamers past, carried on the backs of labored beasts. A beautiful realization, impartial to the burden that will be levied.
For this is my opportunity. The weight lays on the shoulders of a world ending but the desire to build pace penetrates the core. Run and learn to take great leaps. If the cataclysm is upon me, at least I’ll attempt to fly. The angle at which I spread my wings depends on the velocity at which I travel. Up or down, matters not.
What matters is where I am going, and I am going where my roots will lay. A legacy to behold. A story to be told. A journey to be had. A smile and a laugh. For the ground is quickly approaching and I must decide how I will arrive.
Much love to my friend of friends, Chris. Without his incessant nagging, I’d still find masks to hide behind. The purpose is to not make sense, rather provide time between each and every opportunity express the perceptions of a talkative soul. Whatever talent I hold, I owe much of it to him. Salute.