a pile of creative debris

Power and all that comes with it/
The heavy burden of a thousand long years/
A million and more sunrises stretching across a bleeding horizon/
Cold fear and reckless abandon on a razors edge/
Hear my song and know why/
Why you stand before me today/
Frozen and warped, hands gripping the throne/
Awaiting your breath to awaken me.
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I have been absent of late, allowing the dust to settle on my inkwell, the bottle long dried and useless, scrolls rolled and left in piles, never opened and never given another thought. The room smells like old paper and carries a certain pollen in the air, thinner than dust and brighter in the few rays of sun that peek through the fold of curtain that leave my study in darkness. Unfinished books and discarded stories, trains of thought that left the tracks and writer blocks high enough to build a castle of ignorance.

I have been away, but like any good room it has waited for me, the walls still there and the floor still steady beneath my feet, the only thing that left was my imagination, an empty cage that hangs from the ceiling, the square door torn to pieces. Have to fix that.

My fingers leave a trail over the desk and my hand flips open an empty notebook and flips the pages in discontent. Used to be this room was my fortress, a high ceiling library that could keep out the world and it's troubles. My typewriter was my battlement and the words I shot from my fingertips could change reality with every sentence.

The ribbon still has a little shine and I push a series with my index finger, the keys clack with a unique note. Cascading music used to reverberate from the tall bookshelves and send the creature in the cage into an excited frenzy. I finish the sentence with a dull crack.
"All these things and many more, all lined up in a row."

I don't know what it means I was barely paying attention to my own finger, confusion turns to indifference and I pull the chair out and sit down in a cloud of disturbed dust, the leather and wood holds me like it always has.

I'm still wearing my jacket and it makes me remember the nights I would spend writing, the cold pushing against the windows, thick with frost and darkness. Poetry and stories, written and destroyed, by the end of the night I would be wearing my jacket and holding a near empty bottle of wine, my eyes weaving as I read and read the things I had written.

I don't know why I had this place built, the price had turned out to be far greater than I could have anticipated,
In every creation no matter how beautiful the only thing I could ever find was the one thing I was trying to escape.
The Truth.
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