I wrote this today.
A raven calls from somewhere off in the darkness. I’ve been here long enough to realize that time freezes quicker than water and shatters just as easy. I lie on my back, staring up at the blank night sky. No stars. No wishing I may, wishing I might to see the first star tonight. No smiling moon face. No licking my lips, longing to taste the cheese of its surface. Just complete endless darkness. Lately, I’ve wondered which way is up and which is down. It’s been dark for so long, and I’ve been here for so long, and it’s been dark for so long and I’ve realized that madness and fever rise quicker than the sun. I’ve realized that a C is just an incomplete O. But who am I to question the clockwork? These roots that were once my limbs dig beneath the soil on their everlasting search for water. The ground beneath me is so cold that it almost feels fertile, but I know better than that. It’s been dark for so long and I’ve been here for so long and it’s been dark for so long that I wonder if I have eyes at all. Perhaps they were gouged at some point in my sleep. That’s silly, I haven’t slept since I got here. It’s been dark for so long, I certainly don’t need these eyes. Perhaps I will sell them to a passing blind merchant.
“Two pair of vibrant green eyes that the Lord streaked with yellow, I have. I'll trade them for a hatchet, sir. And perhaps you could take that hatchet, being such a kind gentleman, and perform amputation. For I seem to be rooted to the Earth.”
“I may be blind, son, but I can see that what your eyes have witnessed is nothing I want to be putting in my skull.” And off he’ll walk. I’m disappointed by something that hasn’t even happened. Insanity cannot be diagnosed by the insane. So what has become of me?
A raven calls from somewhere off in the darkness and I wonder if it’s the next night. I wonder how many days, weeks, months, years have passed since I came here. Brought here, rather. Since I was brought here. And how is this being recorded? The stars are not and will not be out to listen. No moon. Who is hearing these words? Perhaps if I whisper them softly into the wind somewhere they will be carried away. Perhaps they will reach a home somewhere. And pass through a window where an apple pie cools. For I’m sure my breath is rancid so let’s hope my whispering calls pick up the scent of the apple pie. I wouldn’t mind eating my own words then. I can still find humor. That’s sort of easing to mind.
A raven calls from somewhere off in the darkness. I can tell what it had for dinner and it certainly wasn’t sweet apple pie.
“Two pair of vibrant green eyes that the Lord streaked with yellow, I have. I'll trade them for a hatchet, sir. And perhaps you could take that hatchet, being such a kind gentleman, and perform amputation. For I seem to be rooted to the Earth.”
“I may be blind, son, but I can see that what your eyes have witnessed is nothing I want to be putting in my skull.” And off he’ll walk. I’m disappointed by something that hasn’t even happened. Insanity cannot be diagnosed by the insane. So what has become of me?
A raven calls from somewhere off in the darkness and I wonder if it’s the next night. I wonder how many days, weeks, months, years have passed since I came here. Brought here, rather. Since I was brought here. And how is this being recorded? The stars are not and will not be out to listen. No moon. Who is hearing these words? Perhaps if I whisper them softly into the wind somewhere they will be carried away. Perhaps they will reach a home somewhere. And pass through a window where an apple pie cools. For I’m sure my breath is rancid so let’s hope my whispering calls pick up the scent of the apple pie. I wouldn’t mind eating my own words then. I can still find humor. That’s sort of easing to mind.
A raven calls from somewhere off in the darkness. I can tell what it had for dinner and it certainly wasn’t sweet apple pie.