Trust me to become your hell on earth
Trust your instincts.
Trust nothing.
Do you know this feeling when something calls for you. Do you also know the feeling of hearing that call and acting upon it, following the voices you cannot even interpret, following something that is nothing, tapping blindly in the dark with eyes that see what you cannot see, and ending up at an end that is a beginning within and end within a beginning.
Things like books, they are individual journeys experienced in a myriad of different ways. Stories written by one author made into a new story by each reader.
Alive within dead paper and paralyzed thoughts.
I have read many a fascinating book.
I have read many a captivating story.
I have read masterpieces of literature.
Maybe a handful of those I can remember were more than the average book, were something with a lingering, lasting effect, changing what you were and what you are while you are reading, and afterwards, and ever on.
Mister Neil Gaiman has such power.
Now, I have found yet another.
I knew before I had touched the book, and knew when I read the first few pages and put it aside with eyes bigger than I could remember they were, putting it aside to not touch it again before a few days had passed, only to read a few more pages, not even venturing out into the story itself, putting it aside again, knowing things I cannot know and know nonetheless.
This is not about written words.
While this is not about me it is about me behind the mirror in the reflection of the feelings echoing beyond the seen screens of reality.
Stirring.
Possibly awaking in a deep dark corner somewhere inside a hidden outside.
Whichever way, there always will be shackles as long as things are like they are.
And there always will be wings.
Do not forget to use them.
Trust nothing.
Do you know this feeling when something calls for you. Do you also know the feeling of hearing that call and acting upon it, following the voices you cannot even interpret, following something that is nothing, tapping blindly in the dark with eyes that see what you cannot see, and ending up at an end that is a beginning within and end within a beginning.
Things like books, they are individual journeys experienced in a myriad of different ways. Stories written by one author made into a new story by each reader.
Alive within dead paper and paralyzed thoughts.
I have read many a fascinating book.
I have read many a captivating story.
I have read masterpieces of literature.
Maybe a handful of those I can remember were more than the average book, were something with a lingering, lasting effect, changing what you were and what you are while you are reading, and afterwards, and ever on.
Mister Neil Gaiman has such power.
Now, I have found yet another.
I knew before I had touched the book, and knew when I read the first few pages and put it aside with eyes bigger than I could remember they were, putting it aside to not touch it again before a few days had passed, only to read a few more pages, not even venturing out into the story itself, putting it aside again, knowing things I cannot know and know nonetheless.
This is not about written words.
While this is not about me it is about me behind the mirror in the reflection of the feelings echoing beyond the seen screens of reality.
Stirring.
Possibly awaking in a deep dark corner somewhere inside a hidden outside.
Whichever way, there always will be shackles as long as things are like they are.
And there always will be wings.
Do not forget to use them.