-- Got any idea what I'm talking about? Good luck figuring it out ;) --
He’s a dark, silent kind
of guy. Just stands in the corners; he likes the shadows. I have never seen him
out in broad day light; the sun must hurt his eyes. Or maybe he just prefers
the dark? He sure wears a lot of it; long dark trench, black fedora, shiny
black shoes. I wonder what his face looks like…I have never actually seen it.
He keeps it hidden in the shadows all the time. I don’t believe I would be
surprised if he just didn’t have a face.
He wouldn’t need one; it
would be just a waste of space. He doesn’t see the world we live in, and he
doesn’t need to. He doesn’t speak out loud; that would ruin the magic in it
all. He pulls the pain, hate, and cruel sick death that I crave from dreams,
memories, and thoughts. He doesn’t need to see it happen to know how. He
doesn’t need to hear them talk about it to know why. He just…knows.
That used to scare me;
knowing everything all the time, but I guess it’s just part of the job. He
doesn’t care if he scares me or anyone else, his purpose isn’t to make me great
of popular. He has only one objective: to continuously pull me to the edge, and
make me stare out at what’s there. He pushes me into the darkness, and from
that he calls forth light. And from that light he forms words. And those words
are thoughts, feelings, actions; a story.
And that’s his job.
No comments:
Post a Comment