2004-02-13
Two youths
The young writer sits and scribbles away, pondering a new beginning that brings apprehension, and that foreign feeling called hope. An idea so beautiful that it can only compel the ink to run, and the words to dance--an intricate ritual that brings forth a new story.
"What am I looking at?" is a question that is very often asked.
The illusion--the ideal illusion--is of another youth...dirty-blonde hair, and a warm and genuine soul, who goes out on cold nights to think--sometimes about the both of them, and sometimes about life.
"mystic mysteries loom in the air and I strike them down to see you better through this blood mist fog"
The fog hangs in the atmosphere, and the two search frantically for something to take a hold of...
Perhaps one day they will find the warmth of each other's fingertips, and finally, grab hands.
Perhaps...until then, the writer puts out her candlelight and waits for another day. Her heart is pulled and gnawed at...but the writer holds on the dream of her reader...her beautiful reader.