Antumnos
Some story finds the light of day for they whom travel, a shale and coal mountain still being pushed higher is too fragile and jagged edges tumble and shatter many shards sliding from leaning spires as rivers of sharp objects grinding themselves into black sand itself carrying rivulets of morning mist and soft rains in view of a single courier guest, to see the mountains tall and darkly catching the sun it seems a lifetime to climb apparent by the treacheries of obsession and danger for here it would take more than one life to its rise his path him in demise by avalanche, with soot and sulphur cuts this mountain’s most ancient of soil enters his veins attempting to find home somewhere below the mountain.
To the words a writer puts the courier’s end in the right and wrong words to reference the work and frame the knowable understanding to challenge the questions and choices to intrigue the reader, to finish the artwork before its time is done with images to forget the painter with words to forget the author who’s time is the essence and impetus both given and taken, in work blurring the mind with the stark lines of characters and lives in a real world within pages against the world of the many ages, into the depths of a storied land to find nature blooming to reveal the cruel truth of time, against the darkness in the ink of outlines and words of pictures become the shadows in the room again the darkness gets into the wounds of the mind and the sharp edge of a turning page.
The adventures that life defines by self a prime number and with many and finite challenges a divine variable in as many three equal pieces and a miniscule fraction more with room for border art or boundary landscape, in the moving library each book truly infinite stories this game has chosen only one, different characters some too similar seek one unknown by all accounts with a familiar innocuous name, actions incomplete by frustrating design among which are our questions unanswered about incomplete mindscapes and landscapes and soundscapes of youngness and aging and answers found in habits in the ruins of vulnerable communities found in frustrations of age and youth, to bring the narrator into the world would be closer to knowing the outcome and farthest from the goals of heroes and villains in their stories of magic and might and survival where chess pieces are lost or games finish without continue or rematched eventual to fall, their adventerous discovery of clues leads to an honest fool who mentions their adventure is a game from a book of thorns with words of coal that smudge between pages until obscurity, with words of the greatest and finest wisdoms or the coal would cover their hands turning pages and unreadable soot would darken their eyes, only with acquired abilities to race straightly thru the known gathering the pages never where remembered along the path that leads the way, their journey designed incomplete and the dark story only told where they are now not.
Many memories combined and collaborate on premise and make versions of an image, new old artists or perhaps old new artists as artisans recreating the image of sight or words of life, seen by many gazes in many ways, their opinions made from experience of the unknown fires and dangers of ash underfoot, their lives no different than possible dismiss the art or see it representing the foundations of inspiration and culture and survival, the first art stroke begins before the charcoal paint touches canvass and draws from interpretation known and imagination unknown unless imagined or discovered in the background elements, the days of the week wander between forms of time, depicting reality from mind to mosaic image, each drawing something the same ignored and unknown unrecognized the next discovery of all an artifact with the many sides of days and drawn dark in the shadows of the subject, the focus of the muse and detailed or focused by the artwork thinking to reach it, they attempt to finish it and describe it the same as something it's not, and even then the mysterious object belongs to who lost it, in shadow.
The language used is very real and known by few expertly and by fewer as it passes around them and by many who naturally speak it or other languages, to hear language or read articles the ideas that come to mind are symbols of logic and phrases of truth, the common beliefs of culture lets the style tell and appear as new when recognition begins defining sentences for listeners to contemplate, known are the grammar possibilities and patterns old and new and structures foreign but not indecipherable for now, for tis the potential of intellect conquers the shadows and shame of the mind with a darkness that sleeps until fertile synapses can compose again, precision with subliminal language and creation in harmony the many become the willing musicians in the cycle of ideas harvested for spiritual survival, patterns insult intelligence and break unnecessary focus so that composer also appreciates the symphony’s tidal foundation, distracting like a spinning blade with glimmer of danger that drills into wood dulling itself, to guess the owner of weapon or recognize whom, the nightmare blade severs vital cords of fate as a weaponized metaphor in a describable dream, now unbound by magic and mind wanders armed with a blade of coal in sleep to obsidian cold without sheath of consumptive emotions and intoxication vision, another world summoned in the shadows of sleep escaped, a malady melody hypnotisation.
The walking night to stalk between fires without shadow, the mentions of the unknown explorer, described by the different minds in specific ways, knowing the views of viewers and images of artists the dark explorer continues, the oldest temples of the sleeping world protect the forgotten threat like fiction is written for the cusp of fantasy, the words written as the nocturnal knight replicate foot step by page and pen stroke by blade, author becomes character, in the story given dreams to the mystic laylines to travel and the common bond of men unbeknownst to them, he speaks to the author to praise the tale of himself, he whispers to the author the paranormal will and critical testament ethereal to find the world beyond the words, together they narrate to stand in all directions, over fortune and under skies of time and space, approaching a wall of solid cold and dark the dark character steps thru it like a curtain thus abandoning the author.
Out of the light, the future is pure exploration by choice and design, the nights allure by combining the measure of time by a single sign, a changing magic reveals chaotic truth in forms of synesthesia and euphoria, glimpses of rumors soon sunken into panic bring stimulus and addiction, tolerable and malleable, unknown to the shortcomings of magic the luck of success relies on elements that shape understanding and simpler remnants of an older complexity, familiar piles of backless sacred books to some, split across different timelines as a single memory and lessons of allies as one, to be forced with these choices linear and abstract rearranged in order, the clues of losses to avenge lead a mystery to solve, navigation of enlightenment being forced by control to a single point of fear in the vulnerable chaos, here the memories speak to each other like voices at war, the first experience of frontier awakening a contrarian dream where even command defies itself and tools out of reach are erased by the conflict of instincts, remembering the abandoned past and trails lost and survived, the spirits of instinct interrogate the dark passenger from the central corners of the mind, calling him the only thing unknown these voices devour the stranger, and as darkness resumes itself...