We have walking around with us creatures that slither out of the shimmering twilight of our dreamlands. In the golden chills of a perfect harmony, a musical druid comes into our hearts and tickles our ribs with warm laughter.

But I digress. Words are meant to be harvested and prepared in a way that nourishes our hungry hearts, but recently I’ve been in the fields strangling them with iron teeth. The chemicals that I try to put into these words leak into my lucid days and poison my appetite.

Moments where a light opens inside me and my fingers twitch for the keyboard… these moments are slippery. Contemplation is my mistress and music is our bedroom. At the dusk of my sentence, if there is no crescendo in my heart nor applause in my mind, it gets burned by the sunset of my delete key. In the beginning there was a blinking line. Then, a voice opened the void and said, “let this blinking thing write!”

That is why I stopped my train wreck of thought above.

Characters dance between my ears from the familiar notes of a loving melody. The concordant dance between tires on asphalt and speakers on silence is my ballet. I am merely an astonished audience as full scenes are produced behind my eyes and between my ears. Lights reflecting from the black of the streets bow to the shivering ballads that tap on my ear drums.

Once, there was a ghost, his travesty, and the hands of destiny that he shook. His mind floated easily in the waters of life, hitting no white water obscurities in forms of thought and human language. He was not fogged by the mists of words. He observed with an innocent fascination as the tall oaken ships of man sailed next to him. Our rudders of religion stirred the current around him and for once in his life, he tasted the sands of shore called reality.

All of this drips out of the wet rag stuffed into my ears, the clairvoyant sounds these musics make.

The ghost, now ashore in the land of manifestation, found a self. Coughing and spitting the water of infinity from his definite lungs, he crawled from hands and knees to pads of feet, to feather of wings, and back again to a man’s skin. He smiled, contented with what he could do with such opposable features.

Days passed and his smile grew sore, so he stopped smiling. His thumbs became bruised and cut from all the wonderful achievements this little ghost had made. Eyes of grand craftsmanship looked toward the clouds and forgot about their feet. Remembering the magic that gave him this form, he began to speak. Only in his mind, at first, but one day he found the throat to ask the waters he never strayed far from,

“I see the beauty of day with eyes, I feel the roughness of life through my fingertips, and I understand the yawning of the wind with my ears.”

And after he found these words, because he had said, “I see, I feel, I understand,” he grew older and found others like himself who saw, felt, and understood right alongside him. They loved to speak of the birds flying over head, the water from which they came from, and the ground which embraced them from the cold vacancy of unreality.

The children of these ghosts were told to look at the sky, to feel the water slip between their little fingers, and to pay homage to the grace and mercy of Mother Earth. These little ones were not ghosts, though, they knew not the potentiality from which they were crafted. They were manifestations of original thought. And so, they had thoughts more than they had eyes, fingers, ears, tongues. They created a space above their heads that the original ghosts did not have. They had imagination.

These children took the sacred words, “I see, I feel, I understand,” and they created something that shifted nervously the very mountains in their seats. They brought into life the entity of question. “Why do I see?” they asked their parents. “How do these hands feel the oddness of a tickle? Whysoever must I praise this brown and green thing under my feet?” The parents were frightened and did not understand these questions.

One day, the original ghost lay flat on his back in the early afternoon when the others were out touching things, feeling the texture of the leaves, drinking and worshiping the taste of silence from springs that burst confidently from the flesh of Earth. He lay and his chest did not rise and fall, nor did his lips smile and twitch in the grand conducting of words. The others felt the coldness of his skin and lifted their hands to the air.

“He has returned to the waters on which we first sputtered and gasped.”

The children feared this new thing, though. They gathered around the ghost no longer in his found self. They whispered to each other and shifted their weight uneasy.

“Where did he go? I do not remember sputtering. Is it safe?”

They were lost, these pour spirits. Evening of the seasons came, however, and new children were produced. These were certainty incarnate, the sure souls that felt and remembered the sputtering and gasping. By now, more ghosts had abandoned their homes inside flesh and the original children were as confused, lost, fearful, and quivering as ever.

“Why is the world lathered in discolor each night? When do the dead ones come back?”

These new children sighed at their parent’s misunderstanding. They held their bodies straight and were not afraid to look at the sun. Each day, the children held the hands of their parents and had to say, “Come outside of your shelters and play in the rain with us!” They were pulled back into the shelters, pressed against the shivering bodies of unknowing and whispered into their ear, “What is that malleable coldness that drips from the open window of the sky?”

So, the children had to say something.

“There is a ghost in the sky, much like you and I, who works very hard each day in the sun and becomes dark with wariness and fells droplets of cold sweat to our earth. He knows it is good, because green things grow and we are quenched. Come outside with us, it is good!”

The parents found something they never knew they would find. Comfort. Answers. Words. Words. Words.

“Oh,” they said, “the man in the sky has worked hard today.”

“The man in the sky must be thanked!” the children would answer, for the parents were getting too high on answers. “Think of how hard he works and bow your head in thankfulness.”

More children came, and they, like their grandparents, had forgotten what is seen behind your eyes and what is heard behind your ears. They grasped the lessons of the man in the sky with a tight grip. These words were all the water the new children had in order to grow the tree of their mind. And their mind grew tall. With short stories on how things worked, on the coloring of the darkness, on the handling of fear… these children grew faster.

In future seasons, newer and newer children became manifested. They made things go faster, flow longer, grow greener, know deeper. They had words for the original words their ancestors had brought into the world. “Mythology,” they said. Then, they turned their eyes from that word and what it might have meant long ago and then to the sky where fell small pellets of water.

“A man in the sky?” they laughed, “our fathers and mothers knew nothing.” Because they had words like, “Precipitation, evaporation, cyclic,” and even, “Molecular,” and, “Quantum,” they scorned the original teachings of their late fathers and mothers. Man in the sky sweating on earth. Ha!

They did not stop to think original thoughts. They were so rapt in words that they did not unwind themselves enough to think, “Perhaps this is the same thing my grandparents were trying to teach me. Just…different words.”


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