Playing lightly about the edges of me, the memory of scars and stars that burned me. They leave trails on my body that I travel with my fingertips, when I lay in thought on a sea of my blankets.
Distracted and weightless, wandering amongst the grove of my mind where my dreams fall gently, like autumn leaves upon the soil. I have glimpsed the answer in the sky of a winter night, when the moaning of long forgotten shades filled the icy boughs with whispers and tears.
I have tread where no footprints followed in my wake, in the dark places where the perils are many and the time is twisted. I have come singing through high water and storm, through fire and trial, between a rock and a place so hard it was close to breaking me.
I say now to you the pen is mightier, words are not weightless, and the greatest weapon you will ever wield is your mind. You make of yourself what you create. Whatever life beats you with, rends or tears from you, darkness will never find purchase in a conscious mind. The light of your own regard will dispel the shadows of doubt. An awareness of self is the ultimate strength against an enemy, for it is something that cannot be forcefully taken, only freely given.
Within the late night rustling of memory and emotion that stir in the edges of the room, lies my contemplation of such seemingly trivial perspectives. The muddy tracks, blocked roadways, back roads, short cuts and alleyways on the surface map of my body tell my tale, and I am reading it with calloused fingertips. What does not kill you only makes you stronger if you have the willpower to wield the strength given. If you collapse under the pressure instead of seizing that moment, you become just another casualty in the war of souls.
Whether it is with two eyes or three, I will keep my vigil upon the movements of my heart, and the instincts driven by a wiser half of me. The face I keep hidden beneath my skin is an observant one, and it sees everything I am too busy to take note of. It creeps into my solitude with silent tread, tickling my pen and lounging in my ink wells. Luring me with visions of the memory of trees.
I give these things to you, my reader, with the words I speak now to my keyboard. Filtered through the altered perception of one who sees with eyes much different from mine, is the truth of what I am saying. Perspective is everything, and it is all about where you are standing, but nevertheless my rambling will be scattered on the wind of satellite airways… Like seeds.