More Prose

Droevig

The pen will fade upon the pages, the paper will decompose down to the ashes it once was, and yet we all still scribble down our words. As if by their expulsion they will become entrapped within the page.

Others burn their darkest or most painful memories, the pages themselves, or photographs and momentos, They feed it until everything is consumed and eaten by the rich flames...

why?

In the end I am still left with my thoughts, on paper or in my mind they still ravage me, their own blaze consumes my head, rages out of control and brings out the tears that were always there, the ones always left to sting and claw in the hollow paleness of my eyes.

Maybe, maybe the thoughts will trickle out with them, trickle down to stain rosey cheeks with the burden they carry. They will carve paths away from me...Ebbing in waves down to the ground and the hell where they belong. ...

No...

The tears will fade, their paths will be washed away. But I will still burn. I will still sit amoung the carnage of my life within my mind, no matter how the paper listens to the pen, it cannot save itself from age.

Being Enlightened

"The pen will fade upon the pages, the paper will decompose down to the ashes it once was, and yet we all still scribble down our words. As if by their expulsion they will become entrapped within the page."

I enjoyed the whole piece but I am particualrily fond of the beginning, Droevig. Ah, some thoughts would be better left on a page than in our heads, if only, by some miracle or magic, it could be so!