Magical Thinking

I get why people go off the deep end, I really do.
Why somehow one day a bright young and capable son wakes up transformed - an old codger with a limp right arm, a shuffle to his step, and an undeniable urge to tap the walls of every room he passes through.

Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I understand the siren's call of pencils in order. Codes that finally make as much sense as anything else in this cursed place did. Songs that whisper to us secrets, subtle changes in the air that portent outcomes quite fantastical. We need this. WE. NEED. THIS.

Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There's something undeniable. Some fierce truth. We say to ourselves... surely, now that all our fur has been loved off, and we are set for the fire... surely now when we have given all of ourselves - the thickets will open up, to a sea of rabbits, just like ourselves! And there will be a ceremony! And -

The Hill.

I wanted it to be different.
I wanted... to feel,
Like I had more in common with the universe above the cloudbreak,
Than with the universe of ash and teeth.

Who now can I blame,
For the sight of a sun?
For the belief that functional warmths give proof to hope of the intangible?
Is there a recourse I can take?


Now everything dark is blanketed in stars.
And everything lost is evermore on profound journey.
And everything alone... surely... it must yet be part of a greater whole?


Is there a menace for my ache?
Be there a justice in its fairest form, to mete upon such brutish, thoughtless, animals?
What curse! What charge was done!
To ever notion thoughts beyond the flame.

What equal payment will I seek?
Upon those who sow such myths to ease their heartache?
I wanted... to feel,
I wanted it to be different.