In a sea of words is there no greater storm than deception. The art of making is for fertile cause; to imbue words so more words grow aloud. The pacemaker of a sentence is the sum of all words plus the thought and feel made to cause it. James thought this once, he thought “how could I, a human lost, so lost I could not hear myself but dare find the words to tell myself how I feel?” This much he thought, and he drank and smoked weed to all the kings glory. This glory raised. This glory lost. A caterpillar could do better. I saw him last week. He was a bit frail, but oh well; it seemed he wanted to be alone. I thought he was just intimate with his shadow. A kind shadow, who wanted to become more than just a shadow. Indeed, the butterfly always existed with that caterpillar; it just hasn’t morphed into one yet. Conversely, a man is just two parts of one soul. One soul believes in God; the other is the God himself.

Now, I figure if we were to talk to James right now, he might be quite upset. But I figure if he learnt to be himself, he might come out of more than just a closet. You see, I can’t even describe how stupid that sounds. The feeling of anguish over comes him greatly. I thought then; he was the one I needed to talk to, but reader, believe me he was not in the mood to talk. He was so alone. He was so depressed and anxious. He was the sort of person you would walk past who wouldn’t dare make eye contact and when he did an entire world just suddenly split in half so much not even the black hole could ever suck it through. No pun intended. He adored the dark. He seeped into the dark. He was the dark.

Never mind, James is not exactly the sort of person I should talk about, but I think you might like his tone of voice. You see, it was quite low. You see, it was not even high. If he were high, it would still be low. On the contrary, he was a mystery shrouded in mystery. Not even light could dispel such a mystery. If all the walls and roofs in his home suddenly floated into the night you would find a man sat in the dark with heads hung by his hands lest he be noticed;- this dark figure who dressed in black, and so afraid of showing himself. He ought to wear a mask. He smiles when he knows when to smile. And then he knows when to laugh and how not to laugh. But other times, he’s a rebel. He won’t laugh if he chooses not to. He won’t smile if he chooses not to.

By the by, he’ll talk. He’ll talk. He’ll say something. Anything. Everyone’s gotta speak their inner voice. To write is that which the inner voice speaks. And to listen, is to hear what either speaker speaks. I have been in contact with him, but I’m not sure how to proceed. I don’t know how to like him, to love him, to hate him, to scorn at him. You might know. I’m no better than James, but he’s got his quirks. I have mine. When people see him they look at him in disgust and think “who the hell is this guy walking past me? Why does he even exist?” Well, just mellow isn’t he. Oh well, he’s just that. To be so alone is to be so alone. I thought he was. I can’t picture him laughing with friends at the pub, never mind – he’s done. His life is that. But one day, he’ll find his way. One day, he’ll open up. And one day, he’ll light the fire.

Category:
man, Prose, Works
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