A Mind in Motion

     There are those that flutter to the bright lights of others. They crave their warmth, their bold, wild spirit--and dance around them, no matter the risk to their personal self.      But there are others, those that are a flicker as well, and they flutter to the sparks of internal combustion --not to hover around them, but to merge with them, to experience their consuming existent.      In the end, they either dissolve into something cohesively new, or tear pieces of each other apart until they leave cinders in their wake.       "I am not a moth. I am a flame seeking to dance with other flames..."

     It was a Tickling Sensation that pulled him from the murky depths of slumber.      Just a slight scratching, a tingling against the back of this throat.      Eyes still closed, he tightened the heavy muscles in his chest and cleared his throat, a wet gurgling bubbling up as he did so--hitting the back of his tongue in sticky acidic warmth.      His brow furrowed as a burning sensation quickly followed, up from his mouth as if it was gas, into his nose--forcing him to take air in deeply and exhale it back out in tiny puffs.      It only worsened though, finally encouraging him to open his sleep crusted eyes.      There was nothing worse than trying to bring yourself into consciousness after a chemically induced sleep. The fog in your brain is so thick, and your body is so sluggish and weighted, you get stuck in this lull between being hyper aware of your surrounding and still feeling like you are in a dream state. The fact that he was physically restrained in a Transportation

     There are secrets even the world cannot express but in the merest whispers--haunting truths that carry heartstrings with them across time, space, and the particles between. These unraveling mysteries phantom themselves into our lives--they pass us in the street, sit beside us in the park, or become an integral part of our being.      They are The Drifters , people who have been lost to the spell of existing in the folds of reality.      You know them, have felt the hair rise on your arms in their presence, breathed in their unnatural air with puzzlement and fascination--and you have loved them and lost them.      We call them lovers, mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers, children and strangers. Their eyes sparkle, their smiles beam, and their hearts soar with such awe that we firmly believe they should be sailing in the skies on strong feathered wings than planted firmly on soil with rooted trees. It is no wonder then that they eventually travel on--that these drifters part li

    The trickles fell slowly, Crimson Sins against porcelain perfection, as they burned tracks past taunt muscles--past rippling tendons--past pulsing nerves, to finally fall free of flexing fingertips into worn porous rock beneath the madness that born them. Each splatter echoed like wretched screams in the silence of the deeply buried cave. No creature, no being, not even the sky could hear her ramblings.      Words bubbled past soft lips like songs spouting out of a child's music box, but they held no rhythm, their jumbled refrains jumping from one tempo to the next with such fevered need that they sparked out like dying fireflies in the suffocating darkness.     She was An Open Wound to the world, her bright wide eyes shimmering with the colors of creation as they sought sight beyond the haunting visions that festered inside of her. She seeped with emotions, their perspiring desires soaking past ornate clothes wrapped like delicate bandages around her and filling the air w