Association

It's an easy thing to put together in your writing. The ability to toss metaphor with metaphor, hand in hand like a third grader's daisy chain, exists beneath the surface of each ivory sheet of pulp.

It is a harder thing to associate these things with a person.

Like a conditioning routine, you find that every time you hear a song you think of someone (heralwaysher) She flipped, he flipped. Gonna jump, gonna jump, etc. She knows the song.

The smells. The kind that go straight from your nostrils to your brain, darting inside the neurons like a NASCAR driver scrambling for first place at Daytona. A spell being weaved of love, the smell of burning wood reminding you of a future home that has yet to happen, and probably won't even have burning wood.

The visuals are always there. A blind man finds light for the first time in the middle of the desert. As his eyes open, does he see the raw beauty around him, the majesty of nature's power over us? Or does his mind simply want to see the prevalent emptiness, the sun's nothing-glare misting his rapidly darting irises and forces his eyes to shut again forever?

Regardless, his eyes have been opened.

She is my sweet splintered hickory wood burning in the desert of my love, and I am glad I found her at the oasis.

The end? I think not.

A metaphorical needle pierces the vein, injecting some much-needed energy into my system. School begins to wrap itself up. Things for the future begin to roll in from my sidesight, teasing me with a throaty chuckle and a feather boa tickling the back of my neck.

Another chapter of life is over. Another one will slowly take its place, pages turning for your benefit and mine.

Thank you for your patience.

Also, try not to step in the massive pile of BS that I'm saving for my papers this semester. I'll need that later.

Return

"There is a fear factory in this division."--Fear Factory, "Securitron (Police State 2000)"