going forward

probably not entirely fair, how it works – but it's over now...

a pillage of thoughts and words, green chairs on blue lawns, orange skies on white chocolate clouds and spurts of quiet. practice practice practice, and when you pause to take a breath, it's there, to relax, to calm down; to keep thoughts to yourself; there's not much..

law walks by and wonders if there's anything left. he had been training on his own while I was away for the semester. not punching numbers in a calculator, but running, stretching, juggling knives in the air, breaking spells from glares from strangers; coldness and sensitivity, trained at once.

but it's nice to find a deeper warmth glowing in fiction. the greatest friends come from anywhere, and the time you spend with them feels just right. we celebrate our quiet, independent hours in a comfort only we understand. those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.

--

we tend to owe our greatest gratitude to those very things we take most for granted.

--

soft hums of planes overhead. I'll be on one soon, with ev and law by my side, and we'll play about and relax in the coming gardens we have. exciting. I don't feel a dark cloud overhead; actually, I feel a soft glow from the ground beneath my feet, almost making me levitate into the air. 

I dislike the smirks I sometimes see. even worse, the cold words that accompany that false but seemingly genuine smile. I saw that today, and it hurt, the viciousness, but now law is binding up the wounds and throwing knives at the invisible wall that came up to knock it down. it's none of the person's business anyway - a passive-aggressive remark on personal desires; the peace and quiet is a lot calmer with the wall come falling down on her; death, in the dark passage storm cloud kind of way. law and ev each do the genuine smile that's truly from the heart, the kind that melts barriers and draws hugs; real people that feel; relatable; not that silent arrogance that lights fires and burns corpses and makes lightning want to strike twice each time you try to leave your car.

rain falls, the ground is wet, it's safe to walk, the stream in the sky is a beacon of hope, or a foretelling of good times ahead.

internalize

the present. a powerful idea that you must regularly internalize, seep into your subconscious. a sponge with all the seas soaked inside, but not spilling one bit.

one second passes, and you feel your surroundings...

--

"when will you realize me?" law asks. he isn't spinning a dagger or twig in his hand; rather, a firecracker. "let me be the firework artist inside you."

--

stay close to your arts, your feathers dipped in black ink, dripping at your command, twirling at your fingertips. tell a story with the arts around you; analyze out of curiosity with the probabilistic, machine tools you gather in research; but ultimately, pour out the expressions from the contained orbits of planets that drift about that teary child scribbling madly away, talking to himself, dancing with tiny toys in his hand.

--

"thanks for being honest."

they hadn't said a word, but I could feel it. the breath churning the sea and capsizing my ship. the only one aboard.

It's not about them. Their perspective or any of that - ignore it. It's playing for yourself. Feel yourself wanting to express at that particular time-space moment. It just so happens there are others there.

--

probably too sensitive

--

is there a message brewing inside - a witch's pot stirring slowly with colorless fumes drifting up, sealing the ceiling's cracks shut, condensing and dribbling down the stone walls of a dark cavern where you claimed - "hermit" - away from people, away from yourself. cubes and puzzles lay strewn about the stone floor, where you lay a fuzzy carpet, the kind that makes you sneeze. the pieces of the puzzles are coming off. some you tore off in frustration. of their complexity. or of their simplicity.

the message: keep it short. the world is too vast to allow such drawling tempos and sinking melodies that vaporize, launch us into a stupor midway through. we're shrinking our time capsules and downsizing the time range. perhaps cutting off keys from the keyboard, too.

constraint creates creativity. brevity, expressiveness.

drink this message whole and let the grapefruit boil and steam your throat as the revelation startles your intestines and makes you heart pound more meticulously, more carefully - not with speed, but with precision, with daring, with bravery, with concision and alacrity.

also - the pains of your days should be stored in a bottle to drink later so you can fuel the flaming arts, the pouring inclination of thoughts, that expressiveness. it fills you up like a bottle and tosses you out to sea, and you "know not where you're going for the ocean will decide" - where will you wash up? you don't know, but at some shore on some island where you can find a cavern to brew a pot of colorless fumes and a drink to pour onto the walls and melt a message there, something for the next person who washes up on shore to internalize.

sunset is opening the cracks of the ceiling of this cavern, letting moonlight in.

we step out to the moonlight - it's so bright, it feels like sunrise. we stretch. we take out our chisels. it's time to start chipping away at this cave, the surrounding stone; start carving a masterpiece. do you have enough pain to fuel it?

--

true talent and ability. kind and modest. quietly inspiring. what a human being to be friends with.

away but together

law sat across and folded his hands. his eyes beckoned me to describe the dream.

she got married - later scene, different situation, we were cuddling before a movie, head down on her lap; inner trappings of my thoughts, a subtle representation of things on my mind?

law didn't say anything and instead vanished.

we went to meditate before sleep in the first hour of new year's.

--

as much as you love them, you also want to get away from them.

"imagine a smooth lake before you," ev began, "so smooth, the surface looks like glass, not a ripple across the sky's refl– "

"no," law cuts in, pushing her aside. I keep my eyes closed in the process. "don't imagine. open your eyes. it's there."

I open, and the glassy surface is before my feet. musty woods surround the portal of the lake. I bend down and touch a finger to its surface...

tiny waves glide across like figure skaters, bouncing and colliding to form some unintelligible pattern.

the moment I lift my finger out, the skaters vanish. the ripples stabilize as though they never were.

law nods as he watches. all the rage seems to have left and sunk to the depth of the lake in that soft touch. my finger isn't even wet.

I sit back in the chair. after I sit, strangely, I find my feet on the surface of the water, still glassy smooth. the chair's front legs are in the lake also. the chair wasn't there before.

"don't turn around. instead, close your eyes." law advises, but his voice seems farther away. I can tell that I am not where I was. I feel as though I'm in the middle of the lake.

I close my eyes. the smoothness of the lake can be felt through the pores of my skin.

the chair tilts forward and I plunge in. I open my eyes -

not underwater, not in the sky, but back in my room, with law and ev there, by my side, as though nothing happened.

together, in all our journeys, regardless of whoever is outside this bedroom's door.

--

those shrieks and absurd songs out the door and downstairs. go away, law and ev say, to the noises about. that internal peace should not be disturbed by...

those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.

"to think them beneath you, yet still look up to them and constantly keep yourself in check. their words have no bearing - only you are you." law says, one hand on zy shoulder. tell them, "don't tell me what I should do; I am me and you are you; you may make recommendations, and I may consider; but in the end, this mind is my nation, and no one else is allowed."

sharpen

dry fig leaves chase each other in circles as we walk through the parking lot. nods of the head embody our silent approval of each word that passes between us. a splay tree rearranges itself with each thought we exchange. (our mind - so we can better access topics relevant to the other person faster.)

it's fun versus enjoyment: the spikes of silliness and the steady peaceful happiness that changes over the years. the latter begins to dominate the former. is fun an important thing to maintain? or is enjoyment fine - or better?

--

complacency is the enemy in times of minimal conflict. always strive to do better. but then again there's no need to stress out. this mindset

pensive twirls of the pen in hand, background rain generated from the computer, a void to fill or a chasm to empty - not sure what's happening. need to stay sharp - no, get sharper.

--

'carry your world.'
'sometimes the wire must tense for the note.'
'the wheel breaks the butterfly.'
behold: a faint emotional twist that sharpens your awareness of yourself. we live in an egg designed for us to be ready when it hatches. the whole point is to mature.

--

I wanted closure, but couldn't find any. someone steps out of the shadow and startles me - but it's just law, twig in mouth, blade sheathed in belt. we walk over to ev's where we find her reading a book to background music. 'some search for gold,' she tells us as we step through the door. 'what are you here for?' we say nothing and sit down - just to enjoy each other's company. the cool night air kisses the back of my neck through the window. law sits still with a calm smile as he watches her snap her book shut and raise her eyebrows back. 'others want a dragon to slay,' law says. 'but we don't really - because once we see one, we'd rather it not be there.' we decide to carry our conversation to the woods.

a masked hunter lurks in these woods. law and ev know he could get them, snipe them down with his lethal spear or whatever he throws, but they walk on, knowing they're invincible. because the pen is with them. the writer of the fight.

let the fight come as it may. when law and ev blink in the same moment, a dagger twirls like lighting from bushes far away. I watch as it comes closer, a slow moving metallic piece of art. law sees it - and lets it come. it hits him hard in the chest. but no penetration: the thrower had miscounted his steps. 'you're supposed to throw at an odd number of paces away, sir,' law grins. 'not even.' the dagger is his now, and the hunter is still in hiding, one weapon short. ev does that thing with her eyebrows again to see if law will hunt back. he doesn't. just stashes the blade in his ever growing collection, and we walk on.

'so what dragon are we talking about today?' asks ev. 'the one found in books,' I say, thinking about the billions of stories I'll never get to read. 'the one that builds invisible walls against totalitarianism in the real world by breathing fire through the pages.' law and ev both nod. we reach a cliffside and sit down. the hunter won't bother us here. in fact, he couldn't bother us anywhere.

the moon is above us; the city, below, taking long, long sips of the cool moon. the city, sleeping in its soft glow of lights in the valley, the fog a pillow to the peaceful inhabitants inside. a dragon could have swooped down and perched on a cliff ledge, wrapped its wings around itself for warmth. as I think this, it happens, and ev points and laughs, leans forward to watch the spectacle. law wraps his arm around her and they smile peacefully at the sight. 'maybe there could be a dragon, but no one needs to slay it.' pause. tilt my head upward. wispy clouds stroke the moon. 'suppose so.'

two crafts

would you rather be the lone person crafting away at the stars with his chisel, or the accompanied person walking about the earth in plain shoes? what is the connection between impassive pursuit and grand realization?

--

don't you dare get on that escalator. ...and don't you dare get on that subsequent escalator.

--

soft oceanic words breathe with deep scars in the raspy tone we feel: it makes us tremble, shiver to the cold disregard. yet we feel ever warmer to the smile of those who truly mean it. cobwebs are cleared up by those bright happy emissions - and we experience this clearing, this catharsis, this explosive freedom because we had the luxury to be trapped, the luxury to have ourselves nebulized by the silvery glinting art of nature. law twirls the dagger in his left hand while his right brushes aside the cobwebs with his lance. he marches on through dark woods, light falling on tree gaps. a hermit sits on a stone clipping his nails with a thin blade... law, without hesitation, throws his lance far off, letting it scare a flock of birds and draw the hermit's attention. then law dashes, silent as a shadow, by the hermit's side and steals the blade right out of his hand - the hermit in all his distraction at the strange noise from the lance.

the thief slips away, twirling a new blade. satisfaction on his lips.

-- 

a shadow's embrace is enough to elicit warmth from the parts of you that you never feel touch see or think about. the subtle parts about you that exist only because others are there to observe it: it is the cloak you were born wearing and never took off; the scent of your heart that you've breathed so often, you filtered it out of consciousness. if you look in the mirror, you can't see it. but others can.

--

the spark of a howl sharpens the night rays immensely. law walks about with his sword, brushing aside branches to gaze into the sunlight. wood oak melts around him. it's an imaginary world I've put him in, and he prances around knowing his demise is the same as mine. we chain together our souls as I write and release and he walks and wields his weapon. the adventures are open doors before us.

strings. and the beginning.

chaining together the metal cuffs of art, language, creation: streams of music, threads of nightingale thoughts swooping in to bind each new link - bursts of sunrise in the reflection of the stream over solid stone brooks with water dashing along; breathless air condensing on soft grass in mornings as they walk that stoop to examine the standing puddles on structure. the infinity of chains that we can generate is so fascinating - so much to uncover, the raking garment soft and silky in a nightly piercing amid throngs of brooks dribbling along in woodlands. probably time to reanimate those silent characters bursting inside: law, aubury, troy - they wander about too, looking inside them for something more, searching around them to gather specks of inspiration. they're alive again, and they'll appear shortly.

--

incontinent of rage - the restless growl of ferocious eyes in a dark cave; that creature lurks there, the ring on its clenched fist reflecting the lack of light. much too chained and withheld in this state, this box, crossing and lying... it's not right. a place to hide with your instrument and play to your peace falls asleep the creature there, boiling dry its insides in its snores and masking the smooth smoke from its nostrils:

we meet in the parlor, shake hands, and agree to sit for a half-meal. we split an appetizer, and she claims to have the perfect portion - although she wolfs it down to the other's raised eyebrows. "you speak in everything you don't say," law mutters, and she shrugs, smiles a bit, and laughs back: "a fool-hearted gown you wear under your armor: what, are you the bride for a wedding?" the blade of his weapon lurks behind him, the rage boiling under callous skin. "what of it, ev?" law responds. the knife is behind his back, not for assassination, but not for her protection either. rather, for his own containment. "I am disappointed that my happiness may be nothing more than a series of chemical reactions; that my behavior is dictated by physical reactions, that I am trapped in a 'vesicle', that my most profound experiences can vanish by an electric missile fired through my brain. that I may be upset simply for not eating after some time, or that tiresome felt burst is nothing but lies in incandescent furies in soft-taken gushes of black." ev looks up. her plate is clean. a raised eyebrow, a murmur, a touch, a sigh. you speak in everything you don't say. "taste the air a moment, and enjoy it; you would be unable to otherwise. is that something you want to give up?" a toast to the air, earth, and soul then: a toast to this dungeon we're trapped in - because it gives us the ability to feel. law sheathes the blade, wraps his coat about himself, and departs. that fire is still burning and I can feel it warming my hands, but setting alight broiling night thoughts; angst crowds the clouds, and pours daggers to dodge. the puddles are the graveyard. meaningless. law approaches, picks up a blade, tosses it behind him. no one would be there to be harmed. we meet, silently walk together across puddles. ev watches us go, shakes her head. "what nonsense is this writer pulling out of the hat now?" she wonders - "what kind of dream space am I trapped in, that knives rain from the sky and law walks through with the author in dialogue?"

--

'tell me, please, about yourself: about the quibbles that have brought me here to assist you?' law turns to me and asks as we walk through the knife-fallen night. I breathe darts into the air, and they all miss the bullseye. 'if the universe holds truth to so many people through a book - an idea - and the mere belief in currency can drive economy, why should you not exist - an entity to believe in, another character like Above, so as to accompany my spirit?' 'makes sense,' he replies, and we plod on, kicking aside blades that stabbed the earth. 'people pray to the universe, to a grand creator; from belief comes value. don't pray for me, but certainly, we both understand that this existence... is valuable.' we pause briefly and look behind us: evelyn has decided to not follow - she has probably returned home. the clouds above look as though more knives will fall, but none do. a thrust of insanity, maybe, blending fiction and reality? 'nonsense.' Should I write publicly about those things, or do I have anything to fear? I may be misunderstood, but perhaps the world could benefit from some insight from what goes on in someone's mind... experimenting with language. law reads my thoughts, checks the knife at his belt, comparing it to some of the fallen ones. he decides his own is the best. 'lost entities, we're both real in some way... let me know if you need anything.' we split paths, and a troubling heartache begins pouring out snowy cold winters.