What is my life...
There is a castle set on a hill, I'm sure. One with tall spires and oak lining, protecting the inhabitants inside. The flags wave triumphantly. The bells toll gloriously. The sun shines through the open windows of her room and the slight breeze catches the drapes and they float around like ghosts. The glint of her closed eyes makes it seem like she is dreaming, being funneled through endless space in a whirlpool of her memories. Her crystal lips smile like the ice sculpture in the courtyard, surrounded by dozens of flocking doves. Her emerald hair billows down over her small shoulders and some say that if you get close enough to touch it, it shimmers like a glass lake in mid-summer.
This is the Princess of the Castle.
She dreams of swimming and dancing with the nymphs and elves, and to go on victorious quests where she could conquer her fears, and light the waxy candles in the hallway at night to keep her on the right track. She dreams of voicing her thoughts to the wind, but doesn't recall the last time she allowed herself a voice. To speak, to listen. The frailties of the world are captured in the castle, and she sits upon the bed of her parents, to speak, and to listen. The king is bold, daring, and a brilliant musician. The queen, she came from the icy kingdoms of the north, being shaped by the chilling cold, and softened by the cracking ice. Their back stories are told in many variations of lore around the castle, but the White Princess is the only one who knows of them intimately.
It's 1:27 AM and she is still up. I'm still up, too. She is only awake in her mind, though, dipping her toes in her deepening nostalgia, whereas I feel and drift my way across the keyboard writing absurdities and legends. It's not that I can't sleep, I don't want to sleep. I want to talk and write and listen and ponder. I want to stare at the Princess of the Castle from the sun's eyes, and listen to her crystallized breathing from the moon's ears.
It's 1:32 AM and the snow outside is billowing. It wants to take me to the unknown, where lilacs smell the same as dandelions, and where the "seven ate nine" joke is still funny. It's a cruel world sometimes, but the leathery ears of the bear sitting next to me can help as my screaming pillow when the night draws to an end. The noise from this entry is creaking through the floorboards and seeping through the walls, spreading through the house, begging to be heard. But I can't let it be heard, or my untapped imagination will leave again. It's been too long since I've been here. Too long since I've smelled the fluorescent white of a blank blog page, and now here I am. At 1:43 AM. With nothing left to give, and yet wanting the rest to be heard. The moon must be waning, but on Mars, I'm sure the time difference accounts for lost sleep.
Hey, Princess, if you can still hear me, I'm here. Rooted into this tree I call my home, with all of the comforts of a gumming old man. If you can still hear me, I'm listening for the steady river stream wanting to flow from your lips and through the ears of this bear sitting next to me. I can see you through the window of your castle. Like your carved bedposts, I am waiting to decay, but not able to change unless you carve me a mouth and put your heart up next to my forehead. If it beats loud enough, perhaps the raindrops in your eyes will wipe themselves clear and you can drink to your good health and the long summer days you no doubt will have.
It's 1:56 AM, and what am I doing?
Dreaming, of course.
