A Title? I Could Never Title This.

         To my most private self, I confess this thrice-damned feeling, avoided for years and still unobtainable. A pathetic failure of mine, perhaps, but one experienced, and denied by the majority of, all bodies. From my perch as omniscient narrator however, I can presume keep a deeper knowledge of the mortal psyche than God himself, and perhaps, holding this pretend wisdom can I seek to educate with my failures and tribulations. Perhaps, even, I may learn to curse (Oh, what mixed emotions this thought brings!) this pitiful weakness. Yet as I acknowledge the worthlessness of it all, I cannot hold myself from leaning towards the sinful crimson that so consumes me. One last time, I journey into this unreachable realm through the self, and perhaps manage to divert the jagged, acidic rocks. Most likely, this excursion will lead me to a prompt, soulful death.  Still, I reach forward and still I strive to achieve, for what else drives a good story but the pursuit of the unobtainable?

         This journey starts, like always, where all beginnings do: that vast stretch of white, touching upon the conscious and feeding into all thoughts, a nexus, of sorts, used by the deeper meditative excursions of the enlightened. A novice may be able to clarify his destination in this land of thought, but I, overwhelmed, can only blindly grope and hope to avoid an encounter with those dark parasites that feed upon my twisted self. With my dirty fingers I graze upon the silver inscribed walls and remember:

         Among silver phantasms which claw in the mist, in chalk boulders towering over the glistening streaks of sterling swipes. Consuming light, summon your glowing wraiths to cleanse, enshrine the earth and make a hallowed land of waste. Continue to cut the tendrils of heady darkness at their roots and pluck the flowering entropy, for the dust is kept undefiled! Keeping timeless the preservations of the lonely world, which is guarded by dead vigils. That tarnished cup embedded in the dust still holds the nectar of your vitality, protecting the delicate drink in shadows, away from that purging light. For you, I touch the truth with a cold harsh veil of deception; command the ether to dissolve the simple nothings and disregard the overflowing fountain of pearlesque threads. Anything -- this world, even, for a single dashing thread!

         As expected, a confession. I fear this journey ends in failure, as the rest before it. Once more the gnawing emotion slowly consumes my fingertips, a maddening itch growing, growing! The braces holding me to the balcony rail are breaking off section by section, and I am at my banister’s end. Chaotic winds gust around me, teasing at my hair and grabbing my limbs, tossing me, in a seizure, back into the crimson void. I play the marionette well, from experience, and hope that perhaps for once I will not die earlier than the deepest fury of the storm.