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"Reality writ on thin paper.

Larger than life.

Larger than the movie screen that shows what?

It falls into pieces.

Confetti for heros for some.

The shards of a broken life for others.

I see the dragon in the distance and hear it's roar.

For years I've been told that that roar was one of power.

Now I know different.

It' is the wounded dragon of all.

"What will happen?

When there are no more heros to rise.

When the ground of this world is writ not in stone and conviction

but

Reality writ on thin paper."


Who will you believe then?


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12 June, 2012

CAF


LOL don't mind me. I'm just writing.


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Why do people write?


We didn't use to.

We had people to remember.

Bards,

tellers of stories,

they went from place to place telling their version of what came before.


Raped faces.

They flicker in and out of the fire of our memories.


I remember.

Listening to the old stories.

Where reality paled.

Out would jump the :"gods" and "goddesses" that bridged the gap.

They quieted our fears.

Gave us hope.

Quelled the primal screams lodged in our throats.

The ones that kept closed the bottles of our emotions.

Some how those stores kept us til morning.

Till spring.

Till the light shined on the old fears."


"


Don't mind me.


I'm still writing.


Again

12 June, 2012




"I'm told that Russia fired an ICBM.

I hear the dragons and the bears roar.

I wonder.

If we devolve back into the primordial ooze.

When reason has been replaced with the tics.


What will happen to the clocks of times."


One man calls it the weather to be controled.

You have no idea what's hidden behind the stories.

What is required to keep this world,

this illusion,

going.


Who will you believe when the ground that you walk on becomes not stone but the illusion that it's always been.


What kind story teller will keep you company during the dark night until the next dawn?


Don't mind me.


I'm only writing.




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