Advent

Grey: bland.

Winter: cold and harsh. 

Dark: where the shadows reign... where the sun does not reach.

This is Winter. 

[...]

I am the unwelcome guest, where false smiles are plastered as I enter, as the heat of the excitement and celebration dissipate as I make my quiet entrance. 

I am the unwelcome guest.

The skies turn grey when I make my stay, and all grows cold as my winds bite. The nights are dark and starless, and though I make my yearly rounds, still I am unwelcome, and alone. 

The one of the four who reminds of death, I am the melancholy and the chilling. 

I may be bland, and I may bring cold and harsh winds, and my nights may be dark and starless,

but this is who I am;

This is Winter. 

[...]

This is Winter.

I may be grey, but I am also white; I am whole to the colors of broken light; I am the calm that brings out the vibrant, the nothing that brings out the everything.

I may be cold, and I may be harsh; but I remind those to hope, that if there is a worse there must be a better and if there is cold there must be warmth.

I may be dark and hide the stars, but trust and believe and have faith; behind the clouds that are mine are the stars, and remember; it is in the darkest of nights and the darkest of times when hope and light shine brightest; 

I may remind many of death, but there would be no life without; 

"I am the end that is the beginning;"

This is Winter's advent. 

Hear

Beneath the life that is green and well, 

Lies the skeletons of those before;

For death and life go hand in hand;

This is our waltz,

This is our dance. 

[...]

Cover the floor in the colors of broken light, 

Veil the forest in a lively green;

Burst forth without forgetting;

This is your chance,

To live and see.

[...]

As the sun dries your dewy tears 

In your ephemeral bloom, 

Unfurl your petals, and your leaves; 

And just be;

Even if only for a small eternity. 

[...]

Fall with grace in brilliant fire, 

As the reds and oranges and yellows wilt to brown;

Join your sisters and your brothers;

These may be your last memories,

Just one amongst all the rest.

[...]

Beneath the life that is green and well, 

Lies the skeletons of those before;

For death and life go hand in hand;

This is our waltz,

This is our dance...

[...]

Listen for the tones beneath;
A symphony of harmonies;

[...]

"This is our waltz,
This is our dance."

[...]

Welcome to the melody. 

Gate

For some, it lays open, unhindered.
For others, a rickety wooden door -
For the rest, a wall.

This, is the Gate.

[...]

For some, it opens early.
For some, it opens late.

Others -- others can only stay, trapped between the worlds, trapped between the walls.

[...]

Once gained, never lost,
Once entered, never erased,

Its effects are everlasting.

This is the gift of the Gate.

Heed well this tale,
Remember to listen,

To the tones of beneath,
And to those without --

This, is the Gate.

Go forth,
The Gate may close--

But never forget.
With this gift comes potential,
With potential comes power--

Forget not the indelible ink of those from before,
Forget not the darkness,

But remember the light.

Go forth.

[...]

"Welcome."

[...]

This is the Gate.

Beyond the gate...

Is your domain.

And words are your slaves.

Waltz

Winter has made its advent.

Hinted at with darkening nights, greyer skies, colder days, Winter brings its sorrows and its sadness, bitter with waning stars and frosty nights.

Winter, the color of grey;
Winter, the color of cold;
Winter, the color of dark;
Winter, the color of snow.

Winter is white, clear, and pure.
And it is beautiful, amongst the grey and black, Winter, the reminder that beauty needs not color to show its worth.

White.
White, the color of all colored lights,
Clear, its proof of its virtue,
Pure, for it is the last of the four, the one that states the end that is the beginning.

Winter, known to be bitter, sad, full of only sorrows;
Winter, the giver of snow, the giver of ice and frost, its quiet grace often gone unknown;

Winter gives us its silent beauty, its quiet grace, a beauty in death that gives chance to new life;

Snow, dancing in the wind;
Ice, edging remains in intricate crystal,
Frost, ephemeral patterns on the glass;

This is Winter's waltz, a peace in the cold, a dance in the starless nights, a quiet grace, this is its waltz, life and death, hand in hand.

Glimpse

The fires of the night sky fade, consumed by the emerging rays of light, as the quiet solitude beneath the stars is lifted and the sky is set ablaze by the colors of the rising din as the day awakens;

The light is blinding;

The stars are gone. 

[...]

Faded;

Clouded;

A wilting waning glimmer;

Nearing evanescence:

[...]

To travel beyond the zenith,

To seek beyond the sky,

To glimpse beyond the daunting, blinding light:

[...]

astro/

/naut

"astronaut."

[...]

A sailor of the stars. 

Words

Ink.
Words.
Potential. 

[...]

Blood and tears have been my ink for as long as I can remember.

I used to be a gifted writer, they say.

But then those "incidents" began to happen.

I suffered from amnesia.

People would wind up dead, one after another, dropping like flies, whether they were the rich, the poor, the good, the bad, the vain, the humble.

All died by ink.

Ink splatters, a dark bluish black, would cover their necks, spill out their open mouths, and always, always, always... inky tears spilled, puddled and spilled near their eyes, inky dried tracks carved into their cold dead and decaying skin.

Their eyes were always found open, such eyes that once used to be so clear and filled with life, now covered in still-wet ink, dripping, dripping from their dark and clouded eyes.

I don't remember when slowly, the people I knew and loved began to back away and slowly disappear.

I don't remember. I don't remember anything.

I never did feel lonely; solitude was bliss to me; I had no need for other people, family, friends, companions.

I only needed my parchment, quill, and ink bottle.

I'd take my bag, containing my only necessities of writing materials, and run in my tattered clothing into the woods, the hills, the world beyond.

Then, I'd finally stop somewhere and sit and write.

And write.

And write.

I never remembered what I wrote afterward; as soon as I was done, I'd scrunch the paper together or fold it neatly and tuck it away under a rock, hide it in a tree's nook, or throw it in the river. 

And then I would walk away, far away.

I never remembered what I wrote.

I never did see the inky black aura I left behind;

I never did realize that words were my power,

My gift,

My curse,

My life.

[...]

I laughed as I penned their names into my stories.

The words were red. 

And my tears, black. 

Melody

Swan Lake.

[...]

She spins, spins, spins, leg lifted and hands held above in perpetual grace, as the tinny melody wafts in gentle waves of nostalgia, dancing on a mirror stage.

And then, dark silence.

[...]

The lid slams shut. 

The music stopped and she died.

The Wall

After a while, the Wall becomes something else.

[...]

The dying wilted leaves of what once was a burning gold and red crunch underfoot in a heap of lifeless brown, the winding path familiar, each footstep sure and certain, the mind elsewhere in a land of thoughts, hands though cold are ungloved, arms swinging as the meandering path unfolds.

The path is so familiar that all that passes is merely a blur - the streets, the gardens, the people walking by, the shouts of glee as children play, it passes on by as the feet walk on, defiant and unwavering in their journey, until;

The mind registers something beyond the blur that is the time going by, a striking red amongst the blue and greens, the feet hesitate, unsure, this is not the usual way, and realization hits as the feet stop; the land of abstract thoughts bursts into a tiny thousand pieces and the mind is forced into reality, as the haze slows from a whizzing blur into a very real, tangible, reality.

Here, the winds do not blow, here, the winds do not whisper, and yet, between the din of nothing and everything, one small voice breaks through all.

Here stands a red brick wall, worn and old and yet striking and glorious, sturdy in its large frame, here, the winds stop, here, there is something different.

A voice is heard. Soft whispers, speaking, talking, some mumblings about their life, some ramblings about something else.

The feet have stopped from their usual way, the winds are obedient and do not blow, the mind thinks, and as the voice continues on, together the mind and feet lean themselves against the red brick wall, the person leans themselves against the red brick wall, the courier bag falling to the side, and the voice continues on.

Many minutes pass by; the voice tells a story to the wall, something about sadness, something about joy, something about grief and everything in between, the person suspects the voice is crying, and the person is silent, lost in thought, with their back pressed against the brick, eyes cast towards the sky, as the voice is wracked with quiet sobs.

The person rises, back and shoulders sore from leaning so long on the cold unforgiving wall, the jacket dusted with light red, pausing; a moment of thought as the bag is lifted onto the shoulder, grimacing, having forgotten the heavy weight, a pause, wondering, hesitating, lifts one ungloved hand, pressing against the cold, rough, red brick, reach the voice beyond this wall and whispers,

"It's okay."

The voice - the quiet sobs - stops in stunned silence.

[...]

After a while, the Wall becomes something else.

A listener, a kind soul, a window, a place where the mask is dropped and lays abandoned on the ground...

Grey

Grey.

Something between black and white, bland, dull, not quite either, always just defined as between the two, never quite being  "something," just as "something in between." The outcast of them all, on neither spectrum nor opposite, just the nothing between the "somethings."

The outcast, the visitor, always just "there." 

[...]

One foot in front of the other, she walks on the hard asphalt pavement, neither looking up nor looking down, just going. Her brown hair, loose in the light tugging wind, today, is just brown. Today, no deeper colors to her hair, none of the usual natural slight reddish tinge nor blondish highlighted ends, today, the hair is just brown, just a dull brown. Her hands are shoved deep into the pockets of the jacket she wears, a jacket slightly too large for her small narrow frame, but it is comfortable, soft, and forgiving, so she doesn't mind. Her fingers clench into tiny fists, deep in the forgiving jacket that she wears, as she walks, each black leather boots' step soft against the hard asphalt pavement. 

Her fingers are clenched, tight, she wore no gloves today, and a quick inhale, she stops, her loose brown hair whispering with the wind. She stops, gazes at the surroundings with sad, dull, eyes  - the grass, the trees, the leaves, the wilting fading flowers, the whimpering lifting paint from the window shutters of the houses she has walked by. 

She gazes at the sky. No sun today, just some fading light peeking behind from the moving clouds - she tucks her windswept hair behind one ear, revealing a silver heart shaped earring, glinting in the faded light. 

Everything is grey today, everything is so dull, so bland, everything is so flat... She closes her eyes, a temporary darkness, she opens, still the same and with a defeated sigh, she exhales, she moves on, one soft step at a time, one foot in front of the other. 

Drip. 

Drip. Drip.

A drop splatters on the pavement, one sliding down her cheek, she starts  at the sudden chill, the sudden fit and burst of winds as the leaves rattle, the trees shake, and then the downpour comes.

Rain. 

Her fingers release from their clenched fists, as she pulls them from the dry warmth of her pockets as she stretches each finger in front of her, her palms upwards, as rain splatters each without relent, she stares back up at the sky,  gazing at the silent dark clouds that have risen from clearly something and her eyes widen, her grey eyes widen, because, as she looks around, she was so, so wrong, in the most beautiful way.

[...]

Grey. 

Something between black and white, not quite either, neither black nor white nor a color.

Grey, notorious for being neither, laughed at for being "dull," "flat," and being alone, on neither spectrum nor opposite, the outsider.

But we forget.

Grey; the calm that brings out the vibrant, the fierce, the bold that is the life of the colors.

Grey; the nothing that brings out the everything.

Especially, as it turns out, on rainy days.

Light

A dirt path from afar gives way to gravel, then to bricks, then to asphalt, there is the thudding sounds of footsteps of strangers moving, and we learn that this din is the silence of the city that rises from the barren.

Our journey has been long and weary; without halt we traveled across barren lands of snow, ice, rain, sand, sun, and before us from nothing rises a city that threatens to pierce the zenith, a saddening moment as realization hits that really, the city wishes to tear the canopy of stars and light and dark that is our sky. 

The city that rises from nothing is always moving; I am alone in the gas-lit streets, and yet all the same I am pushed here, jostled there, elbowed, cursed at as I stumble, and struggle to catch myself before again I am forced to just "move along" with the crowd that never quite stays still, while no one and everyone watches, I am still alone. 

The looming shadows that never fade block out what little natural light there is, forcing away the parting gift from the stars and moon as night falls, insisting on enveloping the city that rises from nothing with harsh lights that blind my eyes as my tears are illuminated with the artificial harsh white that tells a jarring truth, the white light that illuminates all, reflecting nothing and everything as I cry out because here, the canopy drifts above asunder, its usual glorious dismal self, hiding nothing as the savage truth of here rends me apart.

Here lies only a bleak city that rises from the torn shreds of the sky's fading radiance, as the stars fall, their waning luster clutching, weakly they glint, before failing to rise again.

Feel the pain of a fallen star,

Know the calm of standing still as the sky engulfs you with existence.

The Barrier

The barrier is whole. 

It was simply always there. Accepted, respected, and always deemed to be yet another fact of reality. 

Invisible, subtle, transparent, it neither strives nor intends to protect or defend.

Just another window, just another wall. 

[...]

For once, the Creator deems that despite the infinity that is possessed within the small world, it's not enough. Create something here, twist something there, the freedom is lacking and far too raw. The potential is unending. The imagination is raw, dynamic, and yet not quite enough. The sword is sharp and keen. The pen does not err in its ink. But the reality is kind, giving, and complaisant.

Nothing to rebel against,

Nothing to resist,

Nothing to challenge, oppose, or defy. 

For once, liberty is a wall.

[...]

Just another window, just another wall. 

The Visitor

The frost dances a trail of ice along the edge of the fine crystal glass, as snow swirls in looping lazed circles in a waltz, white and pure, without regrets.

'Snow.'

Inside sits a lonely person, plaintive and still, leaning against the window, fingers pressed against the imaginary cold.

Outside wanders the invisible, a visitor; wandering and seeing and yet leaving untouched, the visitor meanders into the center of the singing winds and festive dance as ice and snow pair by pair whirl about to an ever increasing beat.

The visitor reaches a house, of simple red brick building, bright and still against the outside blinding white, as a sense of warmth chills the heart, and then, the climax of silence is deafening as wind billows and a feverish frolic of prancing and leaps ensues of snow and ice despite the wretched cold.

Forlorn and empty are the eyes, the visitor still unseen, though piercing blue and wistful. The world inside is pleasant and empty, silent despite the stark cold;

The visitor steps away parting the words, re-entering their own reality; 

The blue eyes start, widening in wondering; a feather floats before the snow, unending. 

A single pane

A masked reflection stares back, something unknown from beyond; trespassing is not forgiven.

The barrier still remains.

The road winds to an end, its gravel giving way to a footstep trodden path, small and narrow that leads deep within the rustling forest that is ahead. Each determined step silences another sound - first the chirps, then the singing, and even the leaves freeze despite the growing snarling wind. From day to twilight to dusk the sky becomes, the light forever waning, the cold sets in as the wind bites, each step now unseen as the stars remain hidden behind the creeping shadows.

With fingers clenched tight against the cold, the chin still held unwavering, the hooded figure walks on-wards on the narrow trodden track.

Each step is slow and measured, undaunted in their journey, though the darkness thickens, suffocating. The stars watch on in silence; the sliver of the moon beckons none.

The wind howls -  an inhuman scream.

The journey's end lies ahead - unseen in the dark.

A dark shadow can be seen - light bids forward from the center.

A rush of footsteps, fingers pressed against the single glass - eyes widen in grief -

You see them,

They see themselves. 

The one-way path of the looking glass.

The Mirror

Gazing into the polished silver framed mirror, a very familiar person stares back.
They at first glance at the reflection, eyebrows raising with a familiar feeling of surprise, before the eyes soften and the glance becomes a gaze, which soon becomes a look of concentration and criticism. The eyes narrow as they seek out and curse at every single thing that's wrong, and then in a rage of fury -

The mirror cracks.
Shatters.
...the lights of a thousand tiny stars...

Everything is silent.
Empty.

The guilty at first shies away, before lifting the head - just a bit - afraid. The barrier is not meant to be broken.

There's another way.
A gust of wind - feathers float - an empty room.

The mask we don...
...reflected in the unbroken mirror...

The Mask we don

Pseudonyms are interesting things. It is a name we give ourselves, an identity made of letters from which the typical barriers of reality are lifted, and then - like that - we are someone else, free to move about in the literary world as our pseudonym cloaks us in invisibility, a mask donned, an identity veiled, as we travel about incognito into worlds we would have never then perhaps have dared to create.

Welcome.