My lantern lights, while I write.
Dear The One Who Listens,
I write to you under the safety net of my tree. It’s a wonderful tree, full of lush indigo heart-shaped leaves, while the soft moss underneath it all provides something like a pillow. You must love it as well, yes? Although, I guess I cannot be so sure of this. I don’t know you do I? You read my words, you get to know me (you know my favorite tree at least), but I don’t know you. Maybe it’s dangerous to write to you, but I don't care. Because you’re listening to me like I’ve always wanted and you read my words as you’re doing right now. I don’t know if you read with an open or judgemental mind, but with all my heart I hope it’s the first. Maybe this won’t even reach anyone but if you’re reading this you’re going to be my someone. I know it in the caverns of my soul.
Soul sounds so much more like forever than heart, doesn’t it? Hearts are temporary, fading and sickening with time, decomposing when its host is gone… Souls are infinite in time. They’re the human energy that causes nerves to light up with personality, ambitions, both love and lust. Altruicity and greed. Patience and wrath.
Yes, I am more partial to the soul than the heart.
I write to you because I need someone to listen to me. Believe the words I write, listen and not laugh in mocking at my ambitions and hopes for the future.
Fear for me when I say I am writing at night, in a white glowing gown, where the wolves groan and moan in hunger, with a lantern by my side on uneven ground, sitting on flammable moss. Yes, fear for me. For this is the situation I have placed myself in now. On purpose.
Maybe that is what’s wrong with me. I am too attracted to danger. Hence, my current situation, and this letter.
You see, One Who Listens, I’ve always believed something was wrong with me. Maybe of my own doing. For what God would make a creature like me, with an achingly beautiful longing inside to leave The Cube. At least, it would be beautiful if life was like the poetry I read in my books.
The Cube is what keeps us safe. I know this. The world knows this. But I wish it wasn’t true. Our world is small, One Who Listens. I’ve already explored every cranny and nook and keyhole. Already lived every adventure here. Nothing I’ve done so far has squelched the adventurousness inside. Maybe writing to you will help.
Rionach of the Blue Blood Clan
