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***

I feel alone.
I feel afraid.
I am the hermit in the modern fairytale
where the real and the imagined are together
in my head.
I find that I do not want to make them separate,
for the reality feels safer with the fairytale.

I am the hermit who is not,
separated from society,
yet so thoroughly a part of it
that I cannot disentangle myself.
We are all alone in our minds,
and one day we will find ourselves,
the black clad ghosts,
drifting lifelessly down the darkness of the grey streets in our heads,
and seeking the solace of the imagined light
and warmth that is the fairytale,
running from the true reality that changes when you know it.

The worlds of fairytale and fact intertwine and form a garden,
a beautiful garden,
fenced with high clipped hedges.
There is a gate,
a wrought iron gate,
rusting,
painted over with the purity of white fairytales,
but sometimes the paint flakes off and
we get to see the underlying decay.
Then the gate opens and we must decide.
Are we inside the clipped hedges,
or are we outside?
Which side is real and which is fantasy?
Does it matter?
I am inside the garden,
the realm of the fairytale,
the fantastic,
the carefully grown and nurtured.
Only when I realise that the hedges exist
do I get the key to the gate,
that now materializes.
It makes me realise that in the
transition between the realms,
barriers are broken down or overcome.

Push aside the half imagined gate.
Step into the jungle.
Let the garden disappear,
it is not needed anymore.
Feel it breathe,
pulsate,
slide around you,
ducking into all the
corners that you hoped were lost in
dust.
Know wonder,
feel awe,
hear and
smell and
see and
taste and
touch
the heart, the great hidden interior.
Explore it,
and think,
and what about the
black clad ghosts
who drifted down the darkness of the grey street?
They are still there,
and each of the them has
the same message
to tell you in a slightly different way.
Listen to the wilderness,
the great animals,
that are both inside and out,
in the quest to survive the
great new jungle
that was always really there.
They may prove helpful.

I remember Freud,
lay down of the couch and
tell me your dreams,
and I think that maybe the only true reality is
dreams.
Or are they just
pale and weak
reflections
of the things that are there that we try hard not to see?
The shadows that won’t let out
dance
in our minds and
throw us to times long past.

See the snake,
the sleek,
sensual curves
as it slides up the rough bark that is reality,
but still keeps it all together.
For reality is rough,
but when we master the art of negotiating it,
it does not matter.
Think of all the things we try not to think of,
the old things that are half forgotten,
lying in the corner under a curtain of dust.
All the things that are slightly animal,
that do not fit into the modern fairytale.
The desire to dance under the stars,
to howl at the moon in all of her
full, round glory,
to truly forget the garden,
and face the jungle to survive,
to remember all the things that are truly old,
truly dark,
but still hide in the corner of the garden,
waiting to be discovered.

Feel peace because you can sense the
reality
beating around you, a part of your subconcious.
You do not need the dreams now.
You have the reality.

You sit up, suddenly.
The night is heavy around you.
You hear a dog howl at the moon in her
full, round glory,
and wish you could join it.
The dream slips gently away,
but you still have the fragments.

Wander down the garden path.
Into the jungle.
It is real now.
I am the hermit who it not.
Listen to what you were used to not hearing.
Feel the great heart.
Know fear.
The dream is not.

***



***

I sometimes wonder what it is that I'm doing here...

***



***

"Greetings and salutations."

"Seven schools and seven states and the only thing different is my locker combination."

"Dreadful etiquette, I apologize."

"Chaos killed the dinosaurs, darling."

"I loved you! Sure, I was coming up here to kill ya, but I was gonna try and win you back first with my amazing petition!"

"You want to clean the slate as much as I do.  Alright, so maybe I am killing everyone in the school, cause nobody loves me!  Let's face it alright!  The only place, different social types can generally get along with each other is in Heaven . . . Seriously, people are going to look at the ashes of Westerburg and say 'now there's a school that self-destructed not because society didn't care; but because the school was society!'  That's pretty deep, huh?"

"Perfecto!"

"Our love is God. Let's get a slushie."

The amazing, gorgeous, aboslutely fucking psychotic, one and only, Jason Dean.

***

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