When the late hours of the evening find me in my pondering state it is a great many of things that I think over. Often, I wonder which ways the metaphors will mind me. Through the streets of Boston beneath the ever gloomy sky, or perhaps the sea and shore where my past lay scattered to the wind and vast waters. Sometimes those written lexicals swallow me whole in darkness, when the sky becomes too tired of its hold on the sun, finally letting it go. But how gravity hangs the moon and the moon draws the tide, I find myself cycling through the phases of its lunar cycle.
Whole one moment, missing half of myself the next.
It’s however strange, this bright and white light in the felt of the night sky.
Because now my word encompassed mind has led me to some north star of thoughts, where inspiration is on my fingertips and I sort of write.
So now I look to this gaping hole in the universe that one might look through like the small peep hole of a door. Because it is a thing that writers gaze upon, finding curiosity and a paramour in what it proffers us amidst the tossing and turning in our sheets that are warm with stories and sensations.
You see, I never do know what I’m to write about when my hands find the keyboard like the stars find their places in the sky; like they’re meant to be there, telling a story through their constellations and long amounts of history they’ve presided over.
It’s a complex feeling really, looking into the moon, finally fearless of what that glimpse into another life might look like. And maybe that’s why the fictional realms of fantasy have become so appealing as I imagined that’s what was beyond. An intangible world of dreams and magic and a fate that promised anything was possible.
I didn’t need my glasses to give me clear sight as I looked upon the arcane. As I smelled the rain that spilled like gleaming diamonds and the trees that smelled of the pervasive earth. Philosophy was never a strong suit of mine, but it appears as though my metaphors find themselves dancing that line as I now find my own self dancing in the land of Boston.
A place of old buildings and trellises and cold breath through parted lips. A faraway story within a story. A place that is more than a place, but rather the infinite longing of my heart spread upon new shores.
Still, it’s a blurry sight that, try as I might, I cannot narrow my eyes with enough strain to see. I’d like to think it’s now the snow flurries falling in earnest. Or maybe the promise of fog on the horizon. I’m not sure I know what’s next, what’s under the sky I’ve dreamt about in another land of my fantastical fantasies where my writer’s mind wills to take me.
But I do find a girl, shaking the sand from her foot, and discovering her past far at sail across oceans. I see her now bundled in a long coat, carrying a book, a pad of paper, and an imagination larger and filled with more words and stories than both. She is a blowing thing really, like a star in a sea of many. Although this particular one seems to light up, even when no one is looking, she seems to tell a story by her lonesome self. Unheeding to the presence of others, she may not make up Orion, or Andromeda, or the Stag, but she’s more meaningful than them all. With an air of wildness about her, an unfettered soul to reality and constraints, this girl, I know, will travel far and wide. She will see the world and her dreams unfold before her as if it were history written all along.
Later in life, that girl will go on to be the one people talk about. Who had looked to the moon and found what all writers dream about beneath it. For not only had she gazed upon that hole in the sky, but she had journeyed to it; reached it as one might say.
And now I’ve taken you to the furthest reaches of the universe, to the strange catacombs of my mind that are a labyrinth and many thoughts. A maze to get lost in nonsense, but in the end, we’ve found her true beginning, under the city lights, where life might birth something new within her.
