beginnings of a story

The lonely phrase ,”One day there will be no traces of the exquisite torture we put ourselves through” repeats itself in her head. Unsure of where it came, it is quickly stalked by another lost foreigner, “And even though she can see the way ahead sometimes she feels uncertain about the next gallop this fiery maned horse has to take. Whipping its locks of elaborate dreams against walls covered in green moss and advertisements selling perfectly packaged wet dreams.”

What the fuck these are not my thoughts, said her voice in her head which seemed, at this moment, to be an open circus for some gobbleywabble she didn’t recognize. A narrator outside of herself was not an impression she cared to probe, it was too early in the morning and anyway, the best way she knew how to get other people’s stories (which seemed to always be floating around the lace work of existence), out of her head was to vacation into her own anamnesis.

She was in the forest sitting in a circle of people who had gathered to hear the poet speak about his unravelling and all the other minutiae of how he came to be such a peppery voice in such a frail body. He was resurrecting words bereft of life and planting them with a well rehearsed precision into the fertile ground in front of him. They witnessed his philosophy shoot up from the earth with an unbelievable speed as it turned into a lively, articulate plant with thin leaves for arms right before their locked eyes. The shoot was about an arms length tall and had a big bulbous head. Its body was thin like a pencil. Astonishment, like a romantic breeze, swept through their meeting. They had all just witnessed the surreal and nebulous nature of what some would call sensibility. There were six pairs of eyes altogether and five of them met each other for a bluff moment to silently discuss their shared peep into some strange wedding between a philosophical sermon and the donations of nature. Comforted by the communal quality of their shared madness (which became sanity), they continued to listen to his story with a great thirst for how they too could write words which make tiny worlds grow.

He confessed to them how geriatric ideas have no chance in the mind of revolutionaries and how words, when carefully selected and erected, have the power to tear down the dogmatic and hackneyed structures which they visit the quiet forest to escape. He searched their faces with a trusting gaze to make sure their thoughts hadn’t floated up to the tree tops. Satisfied with their gibbous, bright eyes he continues… “I suppose escape isn’t the right word because even when we are in those stark environments which really do resemble a scene from a Charlie Chaplin film, we slip through the consumerist circus relatively unaffected because, like a tender veil, we have the lens of our imaginations constantly tinting what we see with substance. Even in the mundane we find ways to dissect and see Beauty and Truth amongst the cluttered gutters and soulless artifacts of our times. That, my precious ink pots, is what keeps us from falling back into a dreamless sleep.”

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