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To tell you the truth, it was the first time I had read in to this thing we call text. I was young, and my mind was filled with love, bursting from fear, and slowly crying sadness. It was then, and only then that words truly became of me. They were my lantern in the dark, a friend in an abandoned world.

Through the window I peered across the green mountainous terrain, flowers blossoming, and trees freshly swaying back and forth in the mid-time breeze, for this was supposed to be heaven. A refuge, a haven for lost souls. A place to find one's self amidst this fast paced, single-serving, fun-size, plastic encased life that rushes us by. Here I only found another within myself. Huddled in a corner, fabricated from the trees. I chopped as fast as I could, until I got to the bone. And then with one swift stroke more, I formed the corner in which to hide... flesh and blood became my cloak. My words, my dagger.

From that day on, life seemed different... hazy, fluid... coursing and pumping through time in what seemed to me as a rhythmic speeding up and slowing down of time, of soul. I waited the day my words would reach an ear, an eye, a mouth, other than my own. Coersed into my corner, words spewed from every crevice... from under my fingernails splurged stories of sleepless nights scratching at dried, cold, flaking skin in the midst of the calmest night the moon had ever known. From under a rock shouted tales of shadow and light, the epic battle that even insects fight in their daily routine of warming and cooling their heat static bodies. Simply put, these times were of life, of death, of love, of loss, of in betweens and up-side-downs. These times echoed "life" in their short lived breaths which rippled through eternity to reach this page.

The more alive you feel, the closer you are to death. This seems to be the underlying theme in this anthill we call humanity. Words that reach my ears bring terror to the columns upon which my temple, my body, my sanity is built upon. And with ever word a new crack is made, and blood spills from within. Without a foundation, your mind slips into the mud... Darkness overcomes, and it is here, and only here that truly look deeper. All the sounds we hear are muffled by the sludge, and as we open our windows of light, all we see is black, caught in the shadows of the insects that crawled before us. So we close our windows as our breath fades, and think of times past, when our columns stood tall, and we pronounced ourselves as "is." Our mind sinks, and now ponders of the path we took to reach our putrescence. The words we chose, the lights we looked at, the words we listened to. In these thoughts our mind is lost. An all encompassing vortex of "is" and "not" whirrs in rushing mosaics, quicker and quicker, fastening itself to any sign of heat that may still emanate from your altar.

And after an eternity in static, your mind gives in, and your breath stops... slowly your thoughts fade into simple words like "but" and "why?"...as the eyes of your mind begin to close for the last time, and blind, you feel the cold consume. You need the cold... its comfort... its steady black hue. And when all is lost, and past is gone, for present fates with god-like speed, a glimpse is caught... Deeper than ever, you feel the bottom... Like the slow trickle of wine, as it splashes against the floor from a recently spilled glass, your heart begins to race, shocked awake by your sense of touch. You open your eyes in complete darkness, regaining your feeling of the cold, and kick, and scream, and struggle to reach the top... and in your newfound breath, streaming from within, you face the world with new words... Blue, as the sky on a crisp summer day, red as sunsets, untold is their beauty, for your words' boundaries cannot allow for it to pass... But this is of no matter, for the sunset speaks to you today, and no one else. The green mountains glow life, as does the plain sheet of paper that lies before your mind, waiting to be filled with images, words, smells, sounds, feelings, and sentiments that scream soundlessly, as a thousand armies clashing in the heat of mediaeval battle in the freshly sprouted grass of your mind. The dew splashes off the green blades, as their boots swish through the newly grown color, as the ground ripples with flashes of light reflected from the silvery liquid flow of each man's blade. A mass of charged love and hate, fear and courage, willing to die for their mind, their words. Spilling their blood for their souls, and the souls of those they love, for in the end, in their past, they are nothing but corpses, slowly deteriorating in the fields of reddened grass. But in the present, in the mouths and minds of those that love as they, heroes, lovers, the ones who fought in the name of life.