My passion for writing sometimes comes a bit undone…
The Battle of the Pen
Within me a battle rages. It’s not like a battle that I have otherwise experienced. It whips me about and fights to have dominance. It often raises to the degree of war. More than just a battle.
My battle seems always to be just below the surface, invariably disputing control over me.
When I wake and when I drift off. As I relax and when I work. It is there. When I read and when I listen.
It causes me to judge and to acquiesce. To accuse and to refrain.
Fracas arises on Sundays. On Fridays. In my dreams. While I chit chat. When I smile or frown.
I wander the woods and travel the highways. This feud progresses and carries me greater along. I want it to end. I beg for it to end. To win. To overcome. To be done. Here. Now.
The mind imagines the completion of this hostile existence. Bringing a peace that will change everything. Is it truly possible to come to that end? Can the reality of tranquil harmony be an actuality?
Within my frame, I see the mongrels frenzy as they play the horde bearing down on the land about me. The clash of swords and screams of titans coming together upon a land desolate of civilization. The monsters that lead monsters that scream a battle cry to take down the dragons and slay the righteous. Only for the want of conquer.
Those of the far lands unreachable united with those from the streets of our own land to unseat these Rapha. This war for the lives of those from both plains.
This battle that takes within it the horrors of the mind that exist for the sake of the throes of justice and civility. The placid joys to wander the woods freely and in concorded felicity once again.
This war. This contention. This ever forward march.
It takes on the evil. It takes on the humor. It rakes coals. It inspires and drowns out my own sound. Much more the sounds of those I converse with. I breathe and think on the battle’s momentum. Thus it does consume me in all facets.
I pray. I beg. Jesus, help me. God this gift, it doth obsess me. Can I not give it over unto you? If nay, then allow me to bear it upon myself wholly and no longer in part.
I drive the Mustang into reckless abandon. The great bear towers upon me, wanting my head for his dinner. Whilst the hare clambers my prone posture. I wake to find Allen has brought an end to the secrets. And love, oh love…
The glorys to come. The words to be penned. The titles of which I can only imagine now on this lonely island of blackened, salted slickness. The old man laughs in derision. He shall die alone in his own shame. Thus the cost of freedom is great.
Random, you say? Random, yes. Yet with fortitude that heretofore wasn’t meant to be understood barring the stories within that rage as a battle that cannot be expelled but by pen and paper.
Featured Image by Kelly Sikkema