How about we skip it tonight?

There's no need for the sounds of fists banging
on locked metal doors outside
or fists on cracked drywall.

How about we let the night decide the sounds?
Let whatever wind may blow guide our course
amidst the soothing chorus of crickets.
​
Let fears and memories of yesterday
fade into the background
while the marvels of our minds take the lead.

Whenever my fingers start typing or scribbling
I never know what's going to happen

They might drag me down through underground caverns lined with swinging blades
or lead me gently through flowered meadows to the sound of fae in flight

They might decide I'm in for a scare and toss a score of ghouls my way
or drop me neck-deep into a memory that's far beyond my sight

Either way, the urge to type and scribble is always nibbling at my mind
and even when I try to plan
I really never know what's going to happen.

Sometimes I look at the world
like I'm a kid again.
And sometimes, that's good.

Like there's unending wonder in the tiniest things
and flower petals sit softly in my hands.

But there's other times
that aren't as bright and happy.

I feel like a child again
confused and confounded by a world that's way too complicated.
Where I want to ask for an explanation for everything
but I'm also lock-jawed and tongue-tied
worried that I'll say the wrong thing
and be laughed at
or shoved to the ground by the big kids on the playground.
Or worse.

It's hard when your present reflects your past
but the mirror's broken
and the glass shows two halves that never should've fit together.

So you have your two selves and their two different voices
telling you to trust and ask
and run and hide.

I guess I'll have to decide which voice I'll listen to today.

When you delve into the human mind
you never know what you might find.

Endless depths of memories to explore
incalculable experiences that somehow always leave you wanting more.
Because even though mortals are quite fallible,
the data they collected over their reigning millennia is quite delectable.

I'm certain that wasn't their goal,
but now that they're gone and the universe bears the toll
it's not like any of them are left to complain
about how we savor and enjoy their pain.

In the summer,
when the sun goes down
the heat doesn't die.

It sits at the base of your closed window
breathing in the night air.
It gleefully dances across asphalt parking lots,
bragging about the hands it singed.

It lingers
as you decide if sleeping under a blanket is worth
waking up in a puddle,
and when you stare longingly at your jackets
that would kill you if you wore them
but still call to your from their hangers.

In the summer
the heat rules
with a glaring intensity,
and ushers in a new age
of water bottle guzzling.

There's little more to do
​when the sun is out to get you.

She cuts through the threads of time with golden shears
reaching past the insignificant
the dull and monotonous
to pluck out her favorite moments.

Around her, you see she's framed them.
Each hung upon her wall
with care to preserve the memories.

All are glimmering or thrumming with darkness
according to their subject matter.
Each with its own significance.
And when it's an immortal judging a moment's worth
you know it must carry weight to deserve such preservation.

On the wall you find quite a variety of scenes.
Some that you expect to see
such as the creations of worlds
and a couple destructions thereof.
But there are others too.
Smaller, focused clips
of fingers intertwined,
smiles and laughter,
single blooms from dry soil,
a furry paw upon a cheek.

If you could ask her about them,
she'd tell you story upon story
as there are countless frames upon her walls.
But this is only a glimpse.
You can only marvel
from your own frame,
and wonder at your significance
in the mind of this all-powerful being.

When that adrenalin pump inside
your chest has run its marathon,
the aftermath is sluggish.
Your eyes dim and limbs drag.
And amidst all
the hype you
just want
​sleep.

Trip and take a tumble
​down memory lane with me.
The slope is high
but one vivid thought should be enough
to get us rolling.

We know each other well enough
that we've already worn a footpath or two
through the dirt and grime
of our mostly-remembered times.
So why don't we try somewhere different?
A memory neither of us have explored before?

Creepy, scrabbling,
evil demon bugs. Can't you
​just leave me alone?

There's this dream I have sometimes.

I'm in a big skyscraper-lined city
maybe New York or Chicago, or Gotham
I don't know.

But I'm still mostly me
which is rare in my dreams.

On the outside
I'm completely normal.
No battle scars of some fantastical war
or even strange clothes.

But there is something off about me,
and in the beginning
I can never tell what it is.

Then, I start running.

Because no matter what
there's always someone chasing me.

And my legs start pumping
I pick up speed,
I'm sprinting
my heart thunders
my lungs plead for release
then, I jump.

No, it's not off a cliff or into a hole.
But I do leave the ground
just for a moment
and the airtime feels like a calming breath.

So when I inevitably land,
I jump again
and this time I go higher
like a lengthened stride I go farther.

Soon I'm hopping the gaps between skyscrapers
and landing light as a feather from hundred foot drops.

It's a dream,
so I don't know how long it lasts.
But it's long enough that I get cocky.

I must be superhuman, right?
Whoever had been chasing me
has long been left behind.
There's no way they could have kept up.

I leap again
off the top of the tallest building
with my arms outstretched
embracing the sky.

Then the gunshot
a shrieking impact.

I'm awake again.
And for the next few hours
I have the nearly implacable urge
to run.