Do you ever sit there and wonder if you're crazy?
Do you wonder if the things around you are real at all?
Or have you just created everything in your mind?
Are you actually living the life that you think you are?

Or are you laying somewhere,
catatonic from an accident or a drug bender gone wrong,
thinking of all that you miss, and locked in a dream that you cannot escape.

Has grief driven you crazy,
and you just keep diving deeper into the only world that makes any sense at all?

Or did the world make too much sense and break your brain,
shatter it so hard that you're fractured and arguing with yourself,
unable to find clarity?

Where there once was structure, now only chaos remains.
Where once you were whole, now there is only broken glass and empty space.

There once was a you, but now nothing remains.
A shell with a smile, two eyes and a nose.

All the mechanics are there.
It's still breathing.

​But now all it does it dream,
and try to make sense of the world,
through a mind that is unrecognizable and broken.

Death is haunted by humans.

Who says that Death is evil?
Depicted as he is, with a black cloak and a curved blade,
ready to rend souls from their mortal shell.
It's unfair and biased.

For someone who has to watch the best and the worst of all human experiences,
who holds the hand of the lonely dying,
who cradles the forgotten children in his arms as they waste away before his eyes,
who sees an endless sea of flickering candles extinguished one by one by a phantom breath,
he is saddled with all of our fears, worries, and nightmares.

But don't you think he has his own memories of us all?
Don't you think he dreams of our tear-soaked faces,
our last words and thoughts?
Does he hear our voices as we sing, shout, scream, or whisper our last breaths?
Does he wonder why some of us struggle and fight with our last ounce of strength to live,
while others leap into oblivion because of hopelessness, sorrow, or desperation?

I think he wonders at the worlds going on inside our hearts and our minds.
Because he only gets a glimpse into our final moments on this earth.
His everlasting collection of last pages must fill whole volumes.
Imagine how much you'd want to read the rest,
if the last page was the only gift you were ever given.

Fingers tickling keys,
skittering gently through a meter uninhibited by words.
Gracefully,
black and white landscapes blur beneath the pale hands,
lifting and falling in waves more purposeful than the ocean's peaceful monotony.
Through the dancing digits, the music flows,
echoing through the halls between our ears and among our ribs,
​with meaning loud enough to shake its way through our bones.

I feel glances directed my way,
and they stick for a moment,
but then slip, skid and slide away.
What's hidden beneath still stays pristine and unscuffed by the crude tools of those who'd try to change me.

It’s not a children’s book title, even though that’s what it sounds like.
But it was where I lived as a kid. At least, some of the time.

When other people are asked about their childhood or family home,
Most have story after story to share,
Happy, sad, hilarious, or any other tinge of emotion aside, they’re there.
​But while others remember clearly their favorite and worst memories alike,
There are very few clear pictures that emerge from my mind when I think about my childhood.
​
The few that do appear, are usually the ones that make my heart pound, hands shake, and consciousness flee.
Not all, but most.
Those are the clear ones.

The others are thin films of emotions and circumstances barely recalled,
Like home videos that have been faded and scratched so much they’ll barely play,
But because you’ve seen them and heard them described so many times,
You remember the plots and cues to laugh perfectly.

The Brown House should have been a place where years of treasured memories were made,
And remembered as my treasured childhood home.
But instead, those memories are haunted and tainted by the sounds of angry screaming and blows.

The me who lived there would crawl into bed, or put my back into a corner, and throw a blanket over my head, clapping fists over my ears to drown it out. Anything to stop the yelling.

Now, I know that I’m no longer that little girl.
I’m not defenseless. Not trapped. Not subject to the whims of an angry father.
But sometimes I still feel like I am.

When I hear a loud noise, or people arguing, or even just feel someone annoyed nearby,
I feel like I’m trapped within my own head again, or back at the Brown House.
Every word I say, feels like it could bring down fire and brimstone upon my head,
And I have to fight myself to say anything at all,
Let alone what I actually think.
​
So when I start crying for no reason in the middle of a semi-serious conversation, or I stutter, or I need to scribble my words down before I say them, please understand that I’m not breaking down,
I just had to go back to the Brown House.

Song of Gold and Song of Sea,
take the stage and dazzle.
Trills that shone as bright as heavenly light,
were yet blinded by the songs' own glow.
Their audience was faces of lovers, friends, and admirers,
all come to witness to songs' brilliance and growth.
Because along with their nature,
the songs had time and determination on their side.
They heard what others had fought to become,
and saw the heights that could be striven for.
But rather than being cowed by insecurities, or fear, or fatigue,
the songs strengthened themselves and expanded their knowledge,
sharpening the edges of their own world-changing tools,
to display themselves in their true forms.
Unending, beautiful, and awe-inspiring.
I can only imagine how far they will have reached,
the next time I hear them sing.

Hey, have you been to the new zoo yet?
Well, it's crazy!

You know those open-air ones,
where they can all run around?
I've heard, that even without bars between them,
they still have their own groups,
and most of the time,
they stick with them.
Oh, you'll see a weird one roaming between,
interacting,
but they're by far the minority.
It's like they don't even need restrictions put on them.
They'll stick with their own kind all by themselves.

​And they're content with being watched.
In fact, it's almost like they don't even know we're here.
That's the cool thing about the people zoo.
It's all natural.
And we don't even need to be caretakers.
They'll do everything by themselves.
I think they prefer it that way.

Here. Have a bottle.
What's in it you say?
Well sir, it's anti-inhibitions.
The world stays the same, but to you,
anything's possible.

You have a lady you've got your eye on?
Well, have enough of this, 
and you can talk to her with no problem!

Have a dream that you've never had the guts to chase?
This'll make it seem as easy as walking down the street!

With this drink,
everything's open to you,
and whatever ends up happening, it'll make you enjoy it even more!
So, whadaya say?
Why not take a few guzzles and see the world fall at your feet?

The wind flows like an invisible wave,
slightly shifting the ever-changing dunes,
and brushing the heat from your skin with its gentle touch.

​Its source is the long-deserted corners of the earth.
Ice palaces, natural monuments to time and the earth's creativity.
Towers of sand and stone, reliquaries of times long dead.
It whistles its way through our towers,
picking up tidbits of conversations to savor,
ready to be relieved on another day,
when the entertainment of humanity is more scarce,
and the landscape is bleak and grey.
It may even share its treasures,
with the gales and breezes that it meets along the way,
our borrowed words passed between invisible hands,
and given new life by the chiming-in of seagulls and sparrows.

​Think on it.
When we are long-dead,
our conversations may still be ringing out somewhere.
Maybe in whispers,
maybe screaming through the air,
but living on to lighten the burden of silence in some corner of the world,
​as entertainment for the wind.

An island of light,
cornered on all sides by darkness.
Stepping stones of shimmering glass connect the island chains,
separate from the blackness,
but trapped.

The sound of butterfly wind chimes and chirping crickets,
ivory silhouettes of cranes and flickering fairy lights,
they begin to show themselves 'round your territory,
flitting in and out of sight,
but you decide to stay where you are.
It's always safer inside your land.

Your imagination can be quenched with the obvious tall tales of those who've explored,
who've traveled the stepping stones,
and walked through the pale arches of lands unseen and incomprehensible.