there is a lot of pressure on my imagination, and i can’t write anything. grarr! but the words are coming. i can feel them. turns out, if you write to escape your world full of emotions, the repression will kill you. i promise.
if you want your real voice, the real one, you must pass through all nine gates and reveal your soul to yourself.
a real question is like: how do you survive the guilt of total ruination? i guess you don’t
lying in the thick grass, i remember stars that never existed. the power of the boy’s heart is startling. like supernova paint. i know my voice is in here somewhere, but it is contained, like a morphic phoenix, in my cageheart. the only way out of hell is down, through the nine circles, through the devil’s metropolis, climb into his mouth and out his tail and thus does one like me regain his soul~
maybe. so i can hope. there is a slow panic within, like one who will be drawn and quartered in 3 days.
a boy builds a sand castle on the beach. the sun shimmers like gold on the sea. waves whisper up and down, crabs knife fight each other for the best holes. the boy packs a red bucket with wet sand then waits, little beads of sweat gather in his eyebrows like tiny jewels. he flips the bucket over: the sand is transformed into a thick, crenellated tower. he sticks a stick with a green leaf flag on top. he stands up, with a small yellow shovel in his hand, ponders, dusting the sand off his knees. his blonde hair glows crownlike in the sunshine. “Camelot?”
“Arthur!” he hears his mother, and frowns, his heart beating out magic and dragons that float and clash through the shifting green of his eyes. why is the real this way? merlin told me to wait and dream.
that’s all i do. sigh. not excalibur, but a small plastic shovel. its yellow, but thats about it. and a mother who knows my real name, but nothing else real about me. “I’ll return soon” he says to the castle. he picks up his colorful things, throws his towel over him like a cape, and
walks into the sky on a staircase of ocean wind.