Sitting here late at night makes me want to go all emo and start writing sad poetry, but nay! I will refrain and do something better (?) with my time.
I want to write something...something fictional, but something good. Something that isn't crap like most of the other stuff that comes out of my head onto paper. Something worth your time and mine. Something I can be proud of and not throw away. Something original. But isn't that what every writer wants? To create something original? In my opinion, ninetyfive percent of all good, original ideas have been used. But perhaps that's just my imagination stagnating on me.
There are many times I've tried to come up with a story all my own with characters so real I can see them appearing at my doorstep, but they always seem to die. My imagination stops and doesn't want to carry them any further. I'd much rather think about them and invision their lives instead of trying to draw them or write about them. Its so hard when the ideas are so exact. Iris, where are you? You were my pillar of strength for a while and then you left. Or did I leave you? I can't remember, but I'll take the blame. My imagination abandoned you for the real world, but now, in this late hour of the night, you've come knocking at the door of my imagination, sneaking in through the window and whispering in my ear.
I want to ask you how you've been, what you've been up to, where you've gone and who you've met. I want to know what battles you've fought, what new things you've seen. I want to know everything about where you've been while I was away and I put you out of my head. I know you were still wandering around without me there. What happened? Fill me in, Iris, fill me in.
You've seen dragons and cities and people of races you didn't know existed. You've been anywhere and everywhere for short visits and long ones, treks through mountain passes and grasslands alike, cliff overlooking the sea and sweaty jungles. Where was I when you were away? I was in the real world, living day to day in my square mile box while my imagination died and you explored galaxies. I should have been with you. No doubt my Lord would have been right there with us, because He knows we both love Him, and I do not regret the nights I spent with Him, but where were you when my mind was dissatisfied and I my fingers would not write? Together we should have visited worlds unknown and common places, people with blue skin and people with antlers, crafters and drones. We should have expanded our minds together, but while you travelled and grew, my mind closed and atrophied. I lived in a cubicle. You saw dragons and cities and strange little things, things you never would have dreamt of seeing in a thousand years.
I envy you for your endeavors, yet you are simply an extension of my own mind grown into a shape of your own. You wander the world for me while I sit and and tell of your adventures. Bring me back a souvenir, okay? Bring me back a piece of me, a piece that I can hold on to and keep in my hands held against my chest. Keep it and never give it up, clasp it tightly in my fist, but careful not to crush it. And though every second it wants to escape, threatening to lose itself in the world's unknown, I keep it protectively, controllingly locked inside my palm for me to know of and no one to see. Bring it back for me.
My colors faded when the light shone endlessly upon me, but my Lord brought me shade. He shielded my eyes from the glaring sun and put his finger upon my back. His touch livened my colors and they shot forth like springs from the earth, reaching out in every direction, latching on and pulling me towards my destinations. Though my strings remain ever attatched to my Lord's gentle hand, my own colorful strings lead me where I need to go. Take me across this parched earth where I kneel, hungry and thirsty, lips cracked and skin burnt, take me to your shelter and your shade, your sustainence and your water, where I may restore my strength and gain my mind. For you brought me to nothing and will bring me back up. Fear not, I said unto my knees, as I sat with forehead pressed against the barren soil, for my Lord will place His knuckle beneath my chin and lift me up once more. Keep going, He's told me, Keep heading across this place where it hurts to walk and it pains you to lift your foot just one step further. Where your lungs burn from exhaustion and the sun burns your flesh. Where your throat cannot swallow and your back is giving way, your ribcage collapses and your eyes have gone blind. Fear not, for I am with you in your darkest hour and will guide you to the light. When His strings take hold of me and I am done, he moves me one step further with a gentle nudge and tells me not to fear. I trust in Him and when I have nothing he reaches out to me and cups me in his hands. Take hold of me and don't let me go. Even when my eyes have turned from you and the left looks more appealing than what you have offered, turn my head forward again. Cup your hands around my head and give me horse blinds. I don't want to look, yet I do. I want you and reach up to you, but my reach is too short. Your face lies right in front of me but it is just out of reach. And sometimes it is a longer reach than other times, but that does not lessen my need to reach you. Let me reach you, and when I do, accept me with arms wide open. But only if I do the same for you. For you should treat me as I have treated you. And when the time comes, I want a complete embrace, not a hand shake.
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