Funny. I don’t feel older. Old? Yeah. Old as dirt. Old as
cobwebs and dust in the heart of an ancient pyramid, but, what the the hell? I
felt that yesterday…last week.
October the 12th First day of my personal holiday
season 12 Oct to 2 Jan. Season of pain, season of darkness, season of regret,
self examination, and recrimination. Why didn't you do more, why didn't you
accomplish more, do something that mattered, make the world at least a little better
than it is without you?
I can feel the dark coming. I've felt it for about a week or
so. Feels like a bad one. Lost and alone in this dark place. No light. No
candle. No torch. No map to find a way out. No guide. Just alone in the pitch
black dark with a pen and a blank page trying to write my way out, trying to
write an escape route. Trying to write a lie I can believe, a fairy tale, a
dream. A happy ending.
I gotta tell ya, I don’t love my chances, but what the hell,
I woke up at 1:31 am on my birthday with words scratching the inside of my
skull, an idea screaming to get out, to be set free into the world, the burning
need to scar the white spaces with ink blood glyphs, that timeless and ancient
magic that puts the thoughts in my head in someone else’s head, even if it’s just
for a moment. Empathy? Telepathy? Sympathy? Magic.
I’ll likely never be the great magician, no rabbit in this
hat, just a back ally street-punk side show trickster with a battered deck of
cards and a few slick tricks with coins, but even a tired old sleight of hand
con man can pull off a trick that amazes and fills the kids on the street with
wonder, once in a blue moon. If he works hard enough and long enough and sticks
with it. So. Maybe there’s a ray of hope in the ink dark blackness. The smell
of a cedar wood fire on a cold winter’s night. Not even the light of a
flickering candle blown out in the wind…but something. A ghost? The long dead
spirit of hope forever lost, but no…wait. Maybe not. A taste on the air, a skin
tingling chill in the wind that tells you, something is out there. Someone is
listening. Words. Scratching. Straining the leash, dying to be set free to
frolic in the cold midnight breeze. Witching hour magic.
There are worse ways to start the day.
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