Vanished

man-walking-on-path

 

 

 

I awoke to the soft grass and the fresh dew. I awoke to the small puddles and the large oceans. I awoke to the low hue sunlight struggling to vanish the clouds. I awoke to the “oh crap I left my contacts in.” I awoke to the nervous times and the anxiousness of the future. I awoke to the delusion of the past and the resolution of the future. I awoke to my own being yet still unsettled in that soft grass. I awoke in the palpable dream of my own. I awoke to no end, and no beginning. I awoke to my own foil and to my own vision of perfect. I awoke to “is it supposed to be soiled?” I awoke to the reality of this, that maybe destiny could alter my course. I awoke to the drop of the ocean. I awoke now to the kindled spirit in my midst. I awoke to the spite of the evil down under and the bundled happenings of life.

I’m awake. I live in my own head. I waken to a book in hand, a Stephen King novel. It’s done. I put down the words and feel the agony of a story settling. Salacious of my own life. A smattering of what I am, what I really am. Is it illicit to dream? If so, I juxtapose that perfect image with an image not of lavish comfort but of something quite underwhelming to some. The complete word upon that hilltop and the severing heat searing below. There’s the rolling film and the high price. Banished the well man and the cradle for which he was comforted with. I will only lose the moment in the faceless home that vanishes in the middle of the hustle and verbiage. It is only a memory to be made. A memory to search for and own. It is only seldom it grows abundantly. It grows exponentially within, shared only with a few. Because if it grows and spreads, gossip dissipates my heart. Laughter, misunderstanding, judgement, cruelty. Life hits me in the face with the critiques. The silver spoon in the sky reflects the sun off of its top and vanquishes the moon all together. In spite of that spoon I run. I run through the pages, and humble myself with the sheets of warm words. A screen of acknowledgement palpable, pours my breath from my belly, and stirs into the mixture of dismemberment and heartfelt cuts in the corner of the page. The large hand turns the page over and I see the eye of the lampoon. A befriended fairy superintendent over the soul walks the stale water and accepts the mystery that has been laid down deep beneath the ocean.

The leader of ridicule and grudge works, lights the flame. Resurrected hand painting a spirit the color of hope. A bar of sunlight seeks through the clouds now and I am awake.

Check out my book!

First short fiction

 

 

 

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