Once is Not Enough

I shall tell you a story.  It will be something magnificent, if only I could find the words to speak.  A fairy sat in a garden of stone, a statue herself she looked so still.  What beauty her face had held, was all but lost in the dusk, a morning fairy she was.  What moonlight shone through upon that circle of stone, revealed a tiny creature, at once beautiful and horrible at the same time.

The stars came out, pinpricks in the ink.  They sparkled in her eyes, like the mirror of a still pool, silent and deep.    But that uncanny stillness in a fairy.  What would it have been like to look upon her in the daylight?  Now she was caught in a realm between life and death, for fairies do not sleep, but sit in that land.

I could barely see her now, she faded away as night deepened.  I felt a sadness well up.  So great was this need to preserve the moment, I ran toward the circle of stone!  I ran there, to find nothing.  

Just a simple smattering of stones laid out in no particular pattern.  There was no statue of that perfect creature, lost between the worlds.  Just vanished.

Ripped in two, my heart felt cold and black, withered and died.  There was no joy left in the world at that moment, just sadness.  Dew collected on my collar as I stood in that spot trying to rekindle the image of the fairy.  So pure, so perfect, so calm.

I took a seat in the stone circle, awash with this unknown sense of grief.  For the duration of the night, I became like that fairy.  A magical being stuck in between, still, calm, serene, awaiting that moment of wakefulness. 

I faced the east, so that when the sun rose, I would meet it first.  Just as it would peek over the horizon and the rays warm my face, my hands, my feet, my wings...

What joy it would be to rise into the sky!  To fly into that caress of warmth! The rays like arms outstretched in  an embrace.  My stillness deepened as I waited.  Patience would find me through the night.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years...they all passed me by as I waited for the sun, for the fairy, for the stillness to creep away with the dark.  The hope that morning would come, was strong, to catch a glimpse of the fairy, before she returned to stillness.  What grace she had in the daylight.

But I sat alone now, wasting away into the dark, waiting not searching for her return.  When I awoke, there were no fairies, there was no sun.  The wan light of that burning orb could not pierce the haze of fog upon my world.  The flutter of wings and the chime of happy voices was absent to me.  The world was old.  No such thing as fairies.

To gather yourself together again, after a night on the cold hard ground is a feat of strength.  Revelations did not alleviate the strain.  I lay back amidst the stones, amidst the green grass.  Listen to the crickets chirp.  It sounds like their voices.  I close my eyes and dream of that still creature.  So long ago, so lost, so real, so abstract and far away.

The sun finally beams down upon my tired arms, to kiss my face with soft light.  A gentle awakening to the truth, and salt.  A tear for every fairy lost to dreams, to dreams lost to fairies.  I get up and stumble off.

Where do I go now?  To look for faries elsewhere.  There are none left, I know this, but the hope of that glimpse remains.  The statue in a ring of stones.  The flutter of wings and the laughter of small voices.  The youth and the calm, all together once again.

Do we start at the beginning, in the middle or the end?  Does it flow better if there is epic description, a picture drawn with words rather than paint or crayon?  Is it more dynamic with dialogue?  How to begin?

There is no real way to start anything, you usually just pinch your nose and dive in with the hope that you will come out the other end alive and only mildly reeking of failure.  Pessimism is a survival skill.  Never forget.

So many thoughts to get lost in.  So that there is no real track to much of anything.  It is there, we are here, they mesh in some conglomeration to which our brains must strive to see a reasonable expansion of thought that coalesces into something we term sense.

I wished I was a butterfly, floating upon the breeze.  

Light upon a daffodil, filtered down from high trees.

Rhyming couplets, alliteration, diction.  These are words, words that have meaning to someone somewhere, but more for play than anything else.  The sounds, they prick the tongue like fire dances in a barrel.  They are confined until they escape, then they rage into the streets, into homes, high and away, wild and unruly!

So much meaning, and so much nonsense to words.  We don't function without them.  We need them, but we don't communicate. We talk, but do not listen.  We hear, but do not understand.  

The span between thought and word is great.  So very great.  It is a chasm and one or the other is swallowed before it reaches another's brain.  

What is it that makes words so powerful?  They start in the beginning, the middle, the end.  They are false, they are true, they are everything, they are nothing.  Contradiction and chaos and confusion.  

Words hurt, words heal.  Tonality, inflection, words.  One man's joke is another's insult.  Trash to treasure. They burn within us waiting to escape.

In the beginning...

There were the disjointed ramblings of the fool. The blog it seems has become fundamental to the purposes of writing.  Well, maybe not fundamental.  Perhaps fun, always mental, and I am certain there is a da in there as well.

I have never been one for journal writing.  Fiction and poetry are more my stream.  But words, they constantly want to escape lately, and I, I am not so good at the verbal part of word usage.  If you could read my hand writing, that would suffice.  Since the computer is where most of my time is spent these days, I shall blog, and it shall not be a great blog, but a mediocre blog that spews forth whatever pops into my head.  Often, it may be scary.  Always it will be strange, perhaps even crazy.

As I am trying to maintain a topic here, this first post is brief, as many posts will be brief until I over come the embarrassment of allowing strangers to read my inner thoughts.  Thanks be unto the deities for spell check, at least proper spelling is one less embarrassment to endure from the blog.

"Escape.  Hey that looks a lot like the word 'escape.'"