Where are these stories coming from?
They are from within. From the core they come. Deep buried in the earth’s bitter embrace, they slumber.
But there they go, they rise up. Like ghosts they swirl with the wind as it goes. Up into the leaves, making them shake, as they travel through the woods. Filling the air with white.
But there he goes, the wanderer. Stumbles through the mist. Sky disguised, the mind breaks. Everything looks the same. It wanders. And the man stumbles with. Or boy rather.
Stories drag. They pull your soul. And the body jerks with.
Into the mud they drag. There the wanderer falters. Falling into earth, falling down to catch the words.
Body helpless, shattered in pieces as the glass breaks, and the mind is open. Accessible for the spirits out there. The spirits from the core.
Like ghosts they go. Like ghosts they come. Yank and jerk your soul.
And sip into your mind, where they stir.
Where the body breaks, the soul is held. Held into the light, as the ghost sips in. And makes the soul wander.
There it goes. Floating through the mist, full of colors. Shapes that don’t make sense. Colors that don’t exist.
But they are. And they lead the soul through the story. Not the mind. The mind is lead by words.
Words that whisper. But deep down, they only echo the colors. The mist. There it is: The feeling without feeling. Without words to discribe it. Without a heart to feel.
Because it wanders with the soul. The rhythm of the colors make it walk. Guided through and between the columns. Pillars of light. And mist.
Nothing to fear. That ended long ago. So did time.
The stream of words be the line of thought. And thought reverberates in thought. The thought of time. Time passing.
But time doesn’t matter in feelings. It can’t be felt. Only counted by heartbeats. But the heart wanders. Guides the soul through a world of mist. A world of stories. Stories that only take shape once they sweep into mind. And make the soul feel.
The feel. Oh, the feel. It doesn’t grasp substance. There’s no firm thing. Everything wanders. And everything speaks and weaves together into that singular stream of story.
That stream singular to the teller. The storyteller living through the world of colors, and no words. Feeling the mist, and forming the words. Control his body to let the mist out, let it float into the world of men. And infest those many minds, and many souls.
But not yet. He’s still taking in. Laying in the dirt on the forest floor, he’s gone.