The Twilight Kingdom.

[crows]

Packing again, after not even so broad enough a time that all of my sundries had seen daylight. Books, bottles of lotion and paint, music and brushes. I am comprised of these thousand things, no more, and no less.

No nearer… not that final meeting…

After all of it, I am filled with a profound sense of futility. Where, earlier today I was raging, so full of this drive and this energy to do and do that I thought I might quite physically burst for it, I am now fatigued and achy, tear-stained, not having accomplished even that one major thing that I returned to my city to do, tonight.

To sing. I had wanted, earlier, so badly, to sing, tonight. Once, when I was in summer camp, a girl I later schooled with and got to know better told me… that things would always be alright, if you could still sing. No situation was too bad, no matter how it seemed, if you could still sing.

And I tell you all, right now, it feels like my voice has been ripped from the comfortable cage of my throat. I feel as sere as the withered end of autumn, descending into an even darker winter while the world around me rears its head into springtime. Through me, there are veins of silver, like stars blurred by a child’s hand… and they give me hope but, oh, the canvas on which they sit is one darker than I have seen within myself for a long time. And I, for my part, am lost within that darkness right now.

Boxes again. My wearied hands move almost without order to do so. Boxes of bottles. Boxes of fluffy clothing, clean and not so clean. Boxes of books that will be too heavy for me to lift when the time comes to do so. Boxes that will fit, only awkwardly, into my tiny eggshell of a car. Boxes that will do nothing to encasket these lonlier fragments of my heart. Like my abandoned paper journal, retired to a shelf (and soon, too, to a box) because I could not find release among its pages. There’s a rage inside me that wants to burn it (is antifreeze flammable? That’s what its soaked with, since that bottle leaked in my car…), to burn it and everything I wrote about certain… you know who. Even in those days when I first met him, I was writing in that desire book I have (that I had with me when we met, that his phone number at the time is scrawled in almost illegibly… ahh, I remember.) and it will kill me to look at those pages. Those are works that no one has seen… and yet, they are work. They are not journal entries. They were loose, billowing folds of diaphanous inspiration that I counted on staying with me for years. Did I take them for granted, then? I do not remember. I honestly do not remember. Perhaps that’s as good a sign as any that I did.

Without faith, I am nothing.

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Packing again, after not even so broad enough a time that all of my sundries had seen daylight. Books, bottles of lotion and paint, music and brushes. I am comprised of these thousand things, no more, and no less.

<I>No nearer… not that final meeting…</i>

After all of it, I am filled with a profound sense of futility. Where, earlier today I was raging, so full of this drive and this energy to <I>do and do</i> that I thought I might quite physically burst for it, I am now fatigued and achy, tear-stained, not having accomplished even that one major thing that I returned to my city to do, tonight.

To sing. I had wanted, earlier, so badly, to sing, tonight. Once, when I was in summer camp, a girl I later schooled with and got to know better told me… that things would always be alright, if you could still sing. No situation was too bad, no matter how it seemed, if you could still sing.

And I tell you all, right now, it feels like my voice has been ripped from the comfortable cage of my throat. I feel as sere as the withered end of autumn, descending into an even darker winter while the world around me rears its head into springtime. Through me, there are veins of silver, like stars blurred by a child’s hand… and they give me hope but, oh, the canvas on which they sit is one darker than I have seen within myself for a long time. And I, for my part, am lost within that darkness right now.

Boxes again. My wearied hands move almost without order to do so. Boxes of bottles. Boxes of fluffy clothing, clean and not so clean. Boxes of books that will be too heavy for me to lift when the time comes to do so. Boxes that will fit, only awkwardly, into my tiny eggshell of a car. Boxes that will do nothing to encasket these lonlier fragments of my heart. Like my abandoned paper journal, retired to a shelf (and soon, too, to a box) because I could not find release among its pages. There’s a rage inside me that wants to burn it (is antifreeze flammable? That’s what its soaked with, since that bottle leaked in my car…), to burn it and everything I wrote about certain… you know who. Even in those days when I first met him, I was writing in that desire book I have (that I had with me when we met, that his phone number at the time is scrawled in almost illegibly… ahh, I remember.) and it will kill me to look at those pages. Those are works that no one has seen… and yet, they are work. They are not journal entries. They were loose, billowing folds of diaphanous inspiration that I counted on staying with me for years. Did I take them for granted, then? I do not remember. I honestly do not remember. Perhaps that’s as good a sign as any that I did.

<I>Without faith, I am nothing.<i.>

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*gives flower*