They are Real

One of those days where it wouldn't even bother you if the monster in your closest were real. One of those days where you want the Boogie Man to come out from under your bed. It is one of those days where I might even greet him and shake his hand. One of those days where I could just as easily kill him without, even a slight hesitation. One of those days where if you were handed the world, you would crush it beneath your grasp. A day where your moral compass doesn't even have a needle. You, I, Me. I forget who I am talking about. You forget who I am talking about. It makes little difference, for the feeling has been felt, in different ways, or exactly the same. Anger: a human impulse, dirty, loathsome, uncontrollable. And now I understand why it would not bother me if they were real.

From the Mind of a Boy: Part 2 "Coats and Brooms"

There he sat so quietly

Hushed so not to even breathe.

There he huddled silently,

Alone in the dark and the soft debris

There he crouched unsteadily

Coats and brooms insure not safety,

So he stood and began to flee

The door swung open to a menacing shadow bent with rage. A brown leather snake in a fist, now raised. The boy his eyes were wide with terror, he dove through the legs of the shadowy rage and ran for the door seeking only escape. He dashed and fled with all his might, he drove towards the woods to find refuge in the night. He knew the shadow pursued him, and his heart raced and drove him faster and faster, to an unrelenting haste. A chilling draft of dark and dreary air slithered across his skin as he ran deeper into the woods. The brush and brambles clawed at him furiously, snagging him at every turn causing him to jerk in fear. Surely he thought, the shadow could not be near. His throat tore at him, begging him to halt. The cool stream below invited him enticing him with cool rippling water, dancing with moonlight. He staggered towards the edge of the creek his breath now gulped with haggard gasps. Once there he collapsed onto his knees plunging his hands into the cool liquid, and then brought a small pool within his palm to his lips. His throat sighed in relief and his body relaxed, hoping the danger had passed. He prompted his legs to move, to stand, to obey. Slowly they began to, and as they did he moved about the small clearing, quietly, fearful that he was still prey. He sat and surveyed from the shadow of a tree, and from that spot he listened intently; listening for any signs movement, watching, smelling, anything, all things that could give away his enemy. After a time with no sign of approach his muscles grew weary. They wanted sleep, and this time, it was he who would obey. He nestled down in a blanket of leaves and closed his eyes for now at ease.

Shortly though within the night he woke, shivers gripping him tight, the air had crept up into his bones. He sat up against the trunk of the tree in an attempt to keep warm and clutched his knees. His hood was drawn and he sent his breath down into his chest, a huddled ball, a bawling mess. The moon shown bright and full this night and with that he knew he had much time until daylight. His shivers began to fade and again his mind swept away into dreams. And again that night he woke, to a roar and a furious might, the shadow was near and looking to fight. Again he knew what he must do, he stood and ran, and ran, and ran. He ran from this man with all that he had. This time further he knew, the trees grew wild and deep and dark, to hide this child. He was slowed now by the tangle of trees in this place, yet further he went towards the forest’s embrace. A shimmer of light then caught his eye, the moonlight danced down through branches in a speckled line. A path, a silvery glow drawn by the moon, a guide above, or so he assumed. He crouched to the earth to observe his path, he took up a stick and didn’t look back. Faster, faster, deeper and darker, the forest would hide him, until he was stronger. So quickly he followed this silver path, laid out by the moon and not turning back. So quick in fact he could not keep track, of the twists and the turns and the roots on this path. So quick so fast and he did not look back nor keep track of his feet as he ran on the path. So fast so fast his feet without track sent him to the ground, a stiffening crack, so fast he thought, that he didn’t keep track, and the world seemed to fade until nothing but black.

His eyes widened to cracks, and the sun poked through with a warming attack. Surely, he thought, it must still be night. Yet the sun was up and the forest alive, with the greens, the browns, and yellows of life. He stood in front of a vernal pool, where lily pads and cat tails grew. His eyes went up to the trees above, their wondrous green barely let in the sun. The shade of the trees and the cool breeze swept over his skin as he stood at ease. He drew breath, the smell of cool damp moss that padded beneath his feet and the glorious smell of fresh green leaves. The earth here was something new, for within each breath, it were though he grew. He looked to the ground for the stick he had held, and at last he noticed it stuck within the cat tails. And as he moved to clutch the end he drew not a stick but a sword instead. A leather bound hilt and a silver glow, speckled with mud where the cat tails grow. He raised the blade and it reflected his face, a face he had not seen before. It was his own he was quite sure, yet a boy he was no more. A grin ran along this face for now he knew he had the strength. He set foot towards the stream which fed the pond, and drank from the water until his thirst was gone. He rose up content at least for now, though quite short lived as his stomach growled. He looked down as though to pursue discourse, but quickly acknowledged the bubbling gnaw, he scavenged for food so his hunger might stop. He strode lightly, barely even disturbing the moss which gave way to his feet with a slow hushed squash. A soft and blanketed place to walk, a place he decided where he was most happily lost. The smile here never left his face, nor the brilliant green within this place.

This lack of attention gave way to something of much greater importance for once his eyes absorbed the forest again, there was something else, across the pool, yet right in front of him. Sleek dark silver fur covered the body of what appeared to be a wolf, only this wolf stood seven feet tall and looked down upon him. If not for its broad width it could almost be mistaken for a horse due to its size. The boy’s eyes widened as he observed this beautiful beast. The wolf locked eyes with the boy calm and dark. Massive white fangs appeared from the mouth as the boy expected a growl to be uttered he was surprised by instead a voice, deep, calm, and melodic. A voice that sounded like hundreds of men uttering the same thing at once, like an echo through time, and with this voice the wolf bellowed his name. The boy could not breath, could not move, could not think. He stood, his eyes locked with the wolf, sword at his side still grasped firmly in his hand, the tip resting softly in the mud. After what felt like an eternity the wolf turned and left without a sound, and so the boy followed. He dashed through the ferns and thick vines, slicing through them with ease as the wolf seemed to pass through them entirely. The greenery was beautiful and lush, full of life, and energy. As he followed the path that ran along the edge of the water, he noticed the wolf was slowing. The boy kept his pace in order to catch the wolf, he was curious of the creature as he was now sure it meant him no harm. The wolf turned towards the boy with his steady gaze, and he held it for what felt like a number of days not moving as the boy continued to slowly advance, his eyes never breaking away. He stood beside the wolf as its head was lowered to meet level his gaze. The wolf’s head swung forward in a signaling motion for the boy to continue.

As the boy looked down the path he noticed a clearing ahead. A meadow, in the middle of the forest, a meadow with grass as high as his shoulders, and in this meadow there sat a weeping willow. A willow with branches that drooped, and wept, and whistled in the wind, a willow larger than any he had ever seen. He turned back to the wolf, who gave him an urgent nod to proceed forward. As the boy approached the weeping willow it grew ever larger in front of him. He could hear whispers now within the tree, the wind came through and gave life to leaves. A beauty and sound he could actually see. The green and the brown and the rustle of leaves, the soft sway of the whispering weeping willow tree, it was here he knew he was at peace. He had found a place where his sword had no need. He moved within the wall of leaves, he moved within the soft sway of whispering leaves. Within the cover of this giant tree, not the sun, or the rain, or the world itself could uncover he. So he knelt in the cover of the tree, then sat and laughed, and knew he was happy. The cool shade of the giant tree was all he would need, for now at least he knew he was free. In all his merriment he was finally at ease, within the dark cover of the whispering weeping willow tree. Within the darkness he felt a tickle, a soft white fuzz brushed his cheek bone and carried along to his nose, he laughed and giggled as a sneeze now grew. His face scrunched and he reeled his head and forward it flung with an “Ah-choo” leaving his head. His head came forward and he felt a thump, a thump of wood, but not the trunk.

And so he knew where he must be,

The coats and brooms stood idly

As a voice was raised and approached his keep

Yet now he knew how to find the tree,

A place he could sit so quietly,

Hushed and huddled quite happily,

The shadow approached but he could still flee.

that feeling...

That deep dark feeling to just not exist. The intense urge to be quiet and peaceful. To not have any recognition of the self. To not be me. To not be. Not to be. A simple question. One that has not wavered for a moment in my mind through my short span of existence. One that I fear never shall. Strange thing to fear, don't you think?

From the Mind of a Boy: Part 1 "Buried Treasure"

Buried Treasure

An endless sea of rolling hills covered in tall thick grass tumbled and bent as the wind sent torrents of waves roaring up along the slopes buffeting the few and scattered trees perched along these hills. He sat high upon a thin limb, crouched as he squinted out into the distance, searching the horizon for something. He pulls a scrap of parchment from his parka and begins to unroll it, straightening out the curled edges. He slowly traces the dotted line that snakes along the page. His finger reaches the X and he taps it to steady his mind. He knows his destination. Now it is up to him to set sail towards his goal. As he observes his surroundings he notices one thing. The wind does not favor him this day. The boy does not mind. A smug determined grin creases his face as he rolls up the map and tucks it safely into his pocket. He brushes his hair away from his face as the wind slaps it back in its place. He stands with his hand against the mast of his ship, looking out towards the billowing green sea, as it foams and roars angrily. For he knows why it fights him. The sea does not want him to find the treasure. Yet the grin remains on his face for he knows nothing can stop him. He yells the orders to set the sails full. Onward now towards his goal. The sun sits high upon the sky, no clouds afloat. His eyes settle upon the deck where his first mate would steer. Empty. As it had been for the last couple of days. Strange thought the boy, that his first mate would be absent on such an expedition. He took the wheel himself and promised he would share the treasure with his first mate regardless of his absence. Within no more than a hour of steering and scrambling to reattach loose sails, land was in sight. He scrambled up to the crows nest by himself to verify the sighting. Just off in the distance he could make out an island, completely vacant of trees, but covered in rows of neatly arranged rocks. He clambered down the trunk toward the row boat casting down from the ship into the rolling green whispering waves. He made haste for the island and came upon it within minutes, he rested his hands on his knees drawing in breath as quickly as he could. He stood up and gathered his wits moving deeper into the island. A feeling of familiarity began to grind in the back of his mind. Though he did not bury this treasure, he was certain he knew its location without the map. He hurried forward along the path that ran through the middle of the island. He was certain now and broke into a sprint, spade in hand. He darted left at the fork, one rock, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. He stopped and turned. There was the marking of his first mate, signifying the location of the treasure. He looked at the soft brown mound. His heart began to race, the treasure he been buried just recently and would prove easy to dig up. He drove his shovel into the earth, violently shoving away the dirt he just removed. A heavy dusty cloud began to choke the air. The boy did not relent, deeper and deeper he dug, each stroke with more vigor. He was getting close, he could feel it, he could sense it. He was now so deep he could not even see out of the hole. He had been digging for hours, limiting himself to a small of pauses. He was sweating, harrowed by exhaustion and anticipation. He stood again and began to dig, and in the third stroke, echoed the hollow crack of wood. His heart stopped at the sound. He was almost there. He had found the buried treasure. He would be rich, he would be able to have whatever he wanted, he would be able to do whatever he wanted, he would be happy. He uncovered the entire box, which was four feet long and about a foot and a half deep. He chuckled and shook his head as he observed the box. They used nails instead of a lock to keep it shut. They knew not how to bury treasure he thought. He drove the tip of his spade between the box and the lid slowly wrenching it further and further apart. So close now, he was so close to his goal. One nail popped out, then another, and another. Until finally it all came loose. He stood quietly in shock afraid to fully remove the lid. He was certain now, the treasure was inside. His fingers slid through the crack grasping the wood tightly. He rose moving the lid his mouth agape. Suddenly he remembered, he remembered everything, the memories flood back, pouring, and roaring, and tearing, and drowning him. Then he knows what the rock there read:

Here lies "First mate"

Little brother, and son.

Loved and missed.

He remembers now. The sea took him. The sea did. That must be how..

(I plan to do a small collection of similar little stories such as this, the boy at work. Work of course being his imagination. Though I do not plan all of them to be as downtrodden as this)

In Blue

Blue in waves, in sky, in rain

Blue in eyes they are the same.

Blue the color to my escape

Holding fast my beating wake

My selfishness is lost in it

The loneliness in this abyss

Cool blue, empty the space

Peaceful how the heart slows pace

Without this blue the mind e-race

Fleeting thoughts escape escape

For now it seems kept safe kept safe

Repeats insure all doubts erased

A terrible, terrible feeling to know

The loneliness is all that grows

For blue in waves, in the sky and rain

Blue not like eyes, that avert my gaze.

(the use of e-race is to symbolize erase/a race. Yes? or No?)