The entirety of my goose-bump covered body wants to believe in the cold, but this chill cannot be compensated by heat. My longing heart knows it’s not a frigid day that pursues me but the relentless spirit world, driving me to reveal myself. It is only when submerged in a scribble of expressions, the only way I truly know how to share myself, that my skin turns smooth again.
It’s impossible to ignore the driving madness of a force like this. Too long have I neglected my pen – blocked, battered, inspired and dwelling in an incapacitating inability to face my genuine veracity. Only a scroll, an index, and a thumb can begin to understand. I cannot stop. It has taken a sure fraught millenia to start. My claim on this world is far less demanding than its on me.
These insistent angels and guides have had enough of my passive display of waiting. They cannot take another iota of excuse or the un-necessitated revolving door that holds me in this cycle of repressed gifts and unclaimed prayers.
Exhausted by sight, I close my eyes to the uninterrupted runnel of consciousness that fastens me in the wake at night. In the shadows, my most precious manifestations lie. Daylight has become a mere fog in which I gratify the cloud cover and sickly winter light. It is in this darkness that my most radiant purpose lives. The lucidity that ensues, transforms fantasy to an immortal, attainable truth.