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A Storyteller’s Venue

Originally Written 8/27/2006; Edited 11/17/2014

*Note: unfortunately due to the formatting in WordPress, this prose loses a lot of aesthetic alignment. If you’re ever around and want to see the original layout, feel free to ask. It does add significantly to the piece with the instructional pauses and outlined observation.

A little crystal ball encasing all my dreams, my visions of a bountiful future
I’d like to jump inside that three-dimensional sphere of innocence, of resurrection, of inference
Maybe you could take me by the hand and we’d count to three
And then we’d leap, eyes closed, feet first, into the bliss of spontaneity
Emotional roller coaster to the top

I hope that you’re willing to make that leap with me
Together we can escape reality
Take that risk
We could count to four if you’d like, or even ten or one hundred
And seventy-seven
We could jump with eyes wide open
We could sprawl across space as we fell into the encasement of the future, the life inside
a crystal ball
no life insurance included

Perhaps when we’re on the inside we can look out into reality, into yesterday
Then again, I think we’d be happier if we closed the door
Fogged up the windows with our deeply internal passion and seventeen kisses top to bottom
No more pain or tears or any emotion undesirable
No emotion undesirable anymore
Inside we could walk, we could walk anywhere and everywhere
Hand in hand
We couldn’t pay mind to the end of the beginning…or the beginning of the end
We shan’t pay mind to such an illusion, an illusion of inconsistency, an illusion illustrated across time and space and illustrious insider indolence

Perhaps when we’re outside we can look in but we don’t have to go outside if you don’t want
Perhaps you won’t be afraid to live because you’re afraid to die
Because perhaps death will not remain the same
An impacting ending, a loss, death will mean nothing anymore for it will vaporize
into the sky, a clear acid that will float to the heavens with no intention to return
Better than death as we know it, that we idolize, and indecide, like genocide
However, if it does return, it’s okay
Shh… it’s a secret, but it can’t come back in
We’ll stay holed up in this glass, the crystal—it’s imperishable, unbreakable, like the unsinkable Molly Brown
Death will disappear and never return

tomorrow morning when I wake, we can talk more

We can dream again
We can dream over and over of disappearing into blissful nature, into perfection
We’ll dream again as our eyes closed, our minds drift, our hands clasp, and our bodies shudder
when night falls…