welcome to the story.

I begin this post much like many others that have gone before it. With no agenda and nothing important to tell or describe or relay. No story. Just writing. And hopefully my apparent lack of a story substance will truly translate into something worth telling. Once upon a time, there was a boy. Pain consumed him at all times but he did not mind. It was real. Lesser of men would have dulled it with their best efforts. Would have brought others into the pain so as not to feel alone. Or if that didn't work, numb themselves with entertainment. Lulled themselves to sleep with mindless chatter. Voices and pictures alike would both do the job. The triviality of being frivolous is a way of life for many. I did not write this phrase, although I wish I did as I truly think it was one of the ingenious things ever created, but "dead men walking" is what comes to mind. But this boy. He was different. He felt the pain. He felt it deep. Many days it crippled him. Turned him feeble and busted him. Like a horse that was raised to be a proud, noble race horse. A throwback to the stallions of the royal courts. But an injury in training created a downward spiral. Crippling it in body and spirit. Becoming nothing more than a shadow of what it was supposed to be. The boy carried the same enormous weight of that type of letdown. The disappointment he himself felt, speaking nothing of what others felt. The disappointment of hurting while everyone else marched along with false smiles. To the drums that numb the true. It doubled him over. Wracked his body. Filled his thoughts. Whispering in the noise and echoing in the silence. In rooms full of people and warm spirits he heard it, sensed it. A little more distant but moving ever closer. On his pillow at night, it would become all the more loud and strong. Static noise bouncing around the hollow spaces. And he cried. He never really wept. But he did cry. And when he wasn't crying, he wanted to. Silently crying as he fell asleep. Then as he entered his dreams, he put the pain on a hanger in a corner of his mind. Walked around and acclimated himself to color. To dance. To life. A hopeful dream would always come. Always different from the last but never without beauty. Never without the colors that popped. The fresh smells. Or the music that stirred. It was something like a cheerful grace. Thats how he remembered the dreams. As cheerful grace. No matter how much the dream changed, there were always fire flies and lilies. An incandescent fairy or two. Shrubs and bushes that were more than just a simple kind of green. Rusty lanterns that hung on black iron posts. They were not old, just "slightly used". Cobble stone drives and nooks and crannys and streets with no names that all seemed to lead to a courtyard. The courtyards were always filled with fountains. And the fountains always had blue water. Bluer than any true blue sky known to man. He liked to describe it as an anticipatory blue. A color that you expected great things from. And in the middle of the courtyard there would always be a light. Illuminating all things. The worst way to describe it would be to say it was warming because it was much more than that. It was brilliant. But it always warmed. But not the temperature. It warmed the boy. The air was always crisp and fresh and cool. And the light never warmed it. I don't think it wanted to warm the air. But it did warm the boy. All of him. The light was affable. And the boy was drawn to it. As he lay down on the cool stone and closed his eyes he felt something. It was peculiar the first time he sensed it but soon became reassuring. The favorite part of his dream. He felt the light touch his soul. He could never really explain it other than saying he felt the warmth hit everything within. And it felt good. And right at the moment when he felt himself letting go. Right when he felt the light overtake him fully. He heard a soft singing coming from the most centered part of it. "Finger still red from the prick of an old rose. Well the heart that hurts, is a heart that beats. Can you hear the drummer slowing. One step closer to knowing. One step closer to knowing. One step closer to knowing. To knowing." And then he would remember what he was supposed to be.