She leads us on again, Dear Page.
Farther and further, through lurid landscapes and storm synagogues. I have yet to comprehend our journey. Is it really a quest as we always believed, or is it simply her passivity on scroll? Are we merely slaves to her blind scratches against unopened doors, are we only pawns in her cursed polemics directed at blind beasts?
Is she leading us, or is she being led by something more primeval and jaded than her dreams? I sense of late, that she doesn’t really know where she is going either. The former force of her convictions is missing, the grounded imprints I earlier scarred your surface with, even before she manoeuvred my placid form, are now markedly absent. I glide passively, wavering constantly upon words that she has yet to deliberate. I hang proverbially over emotions she is hard pressed to reveal. Is this really the same voyage, Page? Is this really the same Captain?
Have we both been led falsely? Set forth blindly in hyperbole typhoons and a torrent of tepidity, without any hope of finding a dream, hers or ours. I finally believe both dreams are the same, no longer am I content to merely float with her whims, to be sought out and blessed with the divided attention she casually throws my way. I seek the shores she seeks and I cannot stomach being led on so far, only to land back in the inane puddles from whence I came. She has shown me too much, I can no longer be content without seeing more.
Can we bear such a betrayal, Page? I know you have always been less concerned about the journey than I, but that is only because you are the canvas…doomed perpetually, to be the last to know, the last in the loop, the last to be taken in confidence. But I am the first, and so this impending betrayal stings bitterly. It is I who am the storyteller and tell me Page, what good is a storyteller without a story? More importantly, what good is a story if she has lost faith in it?
Page, I feel we are perched precariously at the precipice of her convictions and her conscience. She needs us now, more than she realises.
“O Captain, My Captain”
Your crew awaits…
Ready to set sail on the sea of your stories
Ready to pounce every port of your passions
Ready to re-shuffle every rise and fall of your being
Ready to storm through safe shores and stone walls
…Ready and waiting on your words, Captain.
Farther and further, through lurid landscapes and storm synagogues. I have yet to comprehend our journey. Is it really a quest as we always believed, or is it simply her passivity on scroll? Are we merely slaves to her blind scratches against unopened doors, are we only pawns in her cursed polemics directed at blind beasts?
Is she leading us, or is she being led by something more primeval and jaded than her dreams? I sense of late, that she doesn’t really know where she is going either. The former force of her convictions is missing, the grounded imprints I earlier scarred your surface with, even before she manoeuvred my placid form, are now markedly absent. I glide passively, wavering constantly upon words that she has yet to deliberate. I hang proverbially over emotions she is hard pressed to reveal. Is this really the same voyage, Page? Is this really the same Captain?
Have we both been led falsely? Set forth blindly in hyperbole typhoons and a torrent of tepidity, without any hope of finding a dream, hers or ours. I finally believe both dreams are the same, no longer am I content to merely float with her whims, to be sought out and blessed with the divided attention she casually throws my way. I seek the shores she seeks and I cannot stomach being led on so far, only to land back in the inane puddles from whence I came. She has shown me too much, I can no longer be content without seeing more.
Can we bear such a betrayal, Page? I know you have always been less concerned about the journey than I, but that is only because you are the canvas…doomed perpetually, to be the last to know, the last in the loop, the last to be taken in confidence. But I am the first, and so this impending betrayal stings bitterly. It is I who am the storyteller and tell me Page, what good is a storyteller without a story? More importantly, what good is a story if she has lost faith in it?
Page, I feel we are perched precariously at the precipice of her convictions and her conscience. She needs us now, more than she realises.
“O Captain, My Captain”
Your crew awaits…
Ready to set sail on the sea of your stories
Ready to pounce every port of your passions
Ready to re-shuffle every rise and fall of your being
Ready to storm through safe shores and stone walls
…Ready and waiting on your words, Captain.
PeNspicacious indeed.
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