The red apple

Weary traveler

Hello again, old friend.

I visit you once more through the portal of the night, ‘twixt the gates of exhaustion and despair. It seems as though the long nights are the only windows through which you can see eternity, and time falls slower like snow on a white laden land. Where thoughts wander through like weary travelers on a lonesome road.

The cabin of your mind seems to be adorned with a special kind of loneliness, lacquered against these beams and walls. Impossible to remove, despite all who pass through here, and caress their hands along the tendril-ed grains.

What do you see against the stars tonight? Do you see the north star, or the trinity of Orion’s belt? Or do you see a message from the heavens, an echo of your discontent? Is the silence the only song you count as familiar, the only tune in this worn record of a soul?

Do you welcome me as an old friend or a new foe? Am I invited to drink deeply from your favorite bottle of whiskey, or should I dine at the door, bearing the brunt of your belligerence? Do you grant me a bed and blanket, or do I make your porch my tawdry respite?

This whiskey stings, friend, and this blanket is coarse. But I hope you forgive me on account of the time it’s been since we last spoke. I dare not trouble you, old friend, but I would sooner curse myself for not passing you these doubts. You see, these shadows that flicker on the wooden walls, the darkness that dances beyond the night, they are made of the same things.

The bottle is done! The whiskey is gone. But there is no need to cry, companion! Come, bottles can be had for nothing more than an hour’s wage. You can replenish your stores, and refill your heart. Why do you fear?

Be still. Know that pain is the heart of god, and anguish is the tongue of angels. But perhaps god is formed from the strands of our ignorance. Here, you are desolate without knowing such, but even if you did, you would not leave your god.

Sleep now, rest well, dear old friend. Let the flames dance against the backdrop of your body, and may they perform well this night. Listen again to my tales of trouble, and don’t let them disturb you too greatly. Let my questions fill you, and my voice cloud your compass. May the road be forever muddled, and no path sane.

I visit you now, only as a man meeting a mirror. Your tears trickle down my cheeks, and burn my lips.

Sleep well, dear friend. For tomorrow we will once more be foes.

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