and like little hands lost within the translation of stars and dreams, memories become entangled within the desires that burn like fires in the forest of my soul.
and how these little hands burn!
ouch.
and a creature, dressed in thought, comes in, uninvited, to the mansion of my mind.
Fear.
i do not like this creature, but it has a coat of many colors, a tongue that sings sweet and deadly songs, and takes my hands and holds them in its own.
and it holds them tightly.
tightly and they hurt.
tightly and they scream.
these hands scream like wretches at the stake, but they do not let go.
let go.
let go.
let go.
but for all my love, Fear still clutches close.
but it is not a tender touch, it is not an insatiable intimacy.
it is cold, like steel, and it cuts through the flesh of my weak heart like a knife, trained for one purpose only – to kill.
but the heart is not made of just flesh.
it is spirit and life, and steel cannot kill that which was formed in the beginning.
and so these cuts continue, like a machine raging, and i wonder with a distant, fleeting thought, if i could ever escape this horror.
and Love’s voice comes riding in the secret parts of the wind like a gentle whisper, that tells of a meadow where Fear is made void, and steel does not rule.
and that meadow becomes my every thought.
it becomes my every dream.
it becomes my every desire.
and so i follow Love until we come to the meadow.
and i dance, unafraid, with peace, in the meadow of my soul, made new, made right.
but somehow, in the midst of flower and dance, i hear the memory of a whisper, named by Fear, and it begins to tear down the mountain of joy in the valley of my soul.
and so, with my heart suddenly longing for the pain of fear, for the intimacy of its embrace, i leave the meadow willingly, following Fear.
why do i follow it?
because i know it.
because i find it a beautiful mess of intricacies of thought and emotion that i never want to clean.
oh chaotic beauty, that you would leave me.
oh horrific attraction, that you should continue to tempt me.
why cannot i wish to forever leave your presence?
your light is darkness, but your darkness is light.
and in that light i find my own light, darkened by my shadow, lightened by my past, a mess of broken glass that light casts upon darkness and dust, illuminating forsaken things that are made more beautiful by these fleeting shafts of light.
but i would not have the light were it not for darkness.
turn the page.
close the book.
put it on the shelf and do not open it child.
for Fear is a terrible friend.
Fear is a horrific lover.
Fear is a badly written book that you will not want to stop reading.
it is not because the words are well-written or the story strong, but because it lets you write in between the words, finish chapters before you read the end, and rip out the pages you don’t like.
Fear is a beautiful mess, but so is Love.
which mess will you choose?
the unworthy wanderer 