It’s been years since I’ve felt there is anything worth saying. Stand-by, but it might be over. Isn’t that the way it always is? Beckoning a moment of true imagination, of getting lost in a feeling or thought worth having.
When dreams have been more enchanting than my train of thoughts awake, I quicken my step to get to sleep.
-You aren’t a writer just because you set words to a page, you aren’t fantastic if you cannot find the rythm in your thoughts.
-Have I killed it? Smothered it with some noxious gas… left Narnia without noticing? or fucking grown up and fogotten the joy of loving the creation of a story that will be noticed by my favorite part of myself?! If maturity has an such an end than I want out. Strip me from these shackles and take me back to my room, back to my solitud and imagination that loved my company. Perhaps I can entice a rendezvous back to the moon at quarter to three or an encounter with the spirits that I would let haunt my thoughts.
I think I’ve killed them, there is almost no doubt in my mind, because there is a vacancy there, where the voices used to serenade me to no end. I could hear the howls of the wind and the scatters of the rain without even rushing my thoughts. Now its just empty and there is a window with no where to look out to.
Where are the cliffs ravaged by oceans and dreams of loves that of course had to be erased and eased into the past.
But what of the friends that had houses collapse on their heads and wicked dolls, the scenarios of impossible escape and all of the stories that I knew would be lost if I left them untold. Where are they? I forgot to write them downn, that is where they are; some oblivion I don’t know how to access. Where is my wardrobe? Where is my secret passage to places and people longing to be described and love-hated?
I must have angered some kind of energy when I killed them.