The Fire Of Dark (3/18/11)

March 18, 2011

There is a desperate color here. It aches at his eyes. It aches, anathema of an already broken boy. He curses it, spits what hate he can muster, and yet it does not change. He cannot chase it away. This is because it is a color he has painted. It is a color he belongs to, holds onto, collects. The color of dark.

Here, in this box of a room, one wall is a clownish yellow, the others dull as sand. No memory hangs sullen from the walls. No bookcase for the mountain range that fills his yellow box. He is alone here with his thoughts of rocket ships (Bradbury colored) and all shades of super-hero. He cannot reach the world outside. Cannot break through… not even with this stupid blog.

Sometimes he finds himself losing confidence that anything he does will be remembered. He knows how to meter his words well. His head is a thesaurus. But what are these if no one wants to hear him speak?


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