Actually Finishing

Yesterday morning, I felt compelled to write. I woke up with a story in my head, and I knew if I didn’t get it out it’ll play on me for the rest of the week.

It’s as yet unfinished, but just starting it is enough to keep the beast fed. The question was whether to start sharing it now, know it’s both unfinished, unedited, and hardly original.

But art demands to be shared, and at the very least, I can compare it against alter works and claim an easy 500 word win.

And so.

The rain pelts my barrier as I surveil the scene a final time. All must be exactly as the dreams I implanted to prevent breaking the reverie too soon, ruining the careful work of months. It took too long to find a suitable subject this time, I don’t relish the thought of what it would cost to secure another. Already this shell wears thin.

Satisfied with my surroundings, I close my eyes and project myself outwards. Externally, I see a new mirror image of the dream self. The face half illuminated by the moonlight, half hidden by my wide brimmed hat. My overcoat hiding the shape of what lies underneath, my shoes appropriately black as the night. With a small effort, I stretch out my barrier a little further from my body to enhance the ethereal look of the rain not getting close to me in the slightest.

All is as needed.

Pulling myself back into my shell, I start to flex my muscles in well practiced order, from scalp to toes and back again, re-orienting my mind to this body. The process takes longer than usual, additional effort being required in order to will muscles into being. Patience, I remind myself. Soon we will be fulfilled again.

I glance up and down the street before checking my pocket watch. Five minutes to ten. Not long now. The street is empty, ensured by a combination of this deluge and my chosen location. Graveyards, contrary to popular myth, hold no real symbolic power in the world of the occult; they’re just locations conveniently avoided by most, largely unlit apart from the occasional street entrance like this one, and usually attract only the grieving and the dispossessed, both of which have their uses.

Additionally, nobody wants to go running after the screams heard in a graveyard at night. Better to just believe it’s a figment of the imagination.

Lights to my left alert me. Looking around, I see a vehicle coming. Life was so much easier before cars. Sharpening my sight shows three young men, none of which are the one I’m waiting for. The one in the front passenger seat is pointing at me and says something, the others laugh. I freeze the moment temporarily and commit their soul signs to memory before they speed away. They will come in useful later.

I check my pocket watch again. One minute to ten. I hurriedly put it away, focusing the body into the correct posture. All must be perfect.

And then, they arrive.

I slowly look up to see the subject and our prey. The subject wears thin himself, his skin pale, his eyes hollowed and dark, his hair ragged and falling out in patches. After months of work, the dreams have him so completely that he resists even blinking to stop seeing the afterimages. He huddles himself against the cold and wet, standing barefoot in his nightwear, staring at me in fear and awe whilst his companion is frozen to the spot.

I allow myself to smile, ensuring precision in every movement. I beckon them over with a gesture as the gate opens on it’s own behind me.

Finally, the feeding can begin.

On the list of things I both love and fear doing at the same time, writing easily sits above all others. Nothing could signify that more than this post.

I’m a guy with a dozen and one thoughts running through his head every waking minute, from dawn to dusk. I go to bed thinking, I wake up thinking, it simply doesn’t stop. Communicating them, however, often takes a huge amount of effort.

This stems from the fear of being Misunderstood, or to be more precise, the fear of Having To Try To Find The Right Words Over And Over Again. It’s why my therapy sessions often have five minute pauses whilst I search for the most efficient words, or why I’ll pause arguments because I know what I’m saying, but I’m clearly not getting my point across. I get flustered, frustrated, and soon enough give up.

But when I do find that near perfect combination of words? Pure, divine satisfaction. I’ve grinned ear to ear talking about some of my darkest moments for no other reason than finding the cleanest way to explain the exact situation and feelings it evokes. It’s an absolute joy when I’m able to clearly express myself, but that joy comes as a result of a journey that is often too daunting to take.

There’s also the familiar and oft repeated fear of sharing, the vulnerability that comes with expressing yourself to others. As with a lot of complicated feelings, it’s inconsistent; I’ve written and performed at several open mic poetry nights with no issue, for example, and published several blogs in the past, but have re-written this post five times over because I’m just not quite satisfied that it’s good enough for Others, despite the complete lack of consequence if that’s the case (especially compared to the risk of bombing on stage).

So then why persist? Because again, it brings me joy, and joy is often in short supply in life.

I also have an over abundance of ideas; brief bursts of poetry, stories half mapped out, blog post ideas, essay topics. Getting them out there seems the better path, rather than sitting under the weight of them.

And if nothing else, it’ll help lift the monotony in a far healthier way than endless YouTube shorts.