The Power of Story

"its a think piece about a mid level band struggling with their own limitations in the harsh face of stardom." AF

I was composed as a medley of an authors imagination; and brought to life by the creation of a story told in virtue of a readers appeals, and semblance, of the Logos and the Pathos.  A reader who, by acting as both protagonist and observer,  is responsible for redesigning themselves--and the story--while they, emotionally, intellectually, and physically negotiate the authority of a path.  A path apparent to any corporeal path within your reality, if only by means of a mutual decision to acknowledge the validity of a like reality.  It is, however, unlike any other path in particular you might be familiar with only in that if you traverse it, obstinate, and assured it would lead you in the general direction of the waking unconscious. This path, in other words, is incipient, creating itself cognitively from the mind of a wayfarer, as it designs, and redesigns itself for you, the wanderer, because of you, the wanderer.  And I am the literary creation of those otherwise unrealized dreams; and a device of the unintentional life of an idea of a story.  A story created to restore the ethos of an author. No name was given to me. There just wasn’t enough time, I was a momentary thought printed, then erased, then printed again on paper. He, the author, had no idea the consequences of the power of such words written together in that perfect series.

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It started snowing early this morning, most were still in their beds warm and dreaming, they were lost in worlds unfamiliar yet always so comfortable.  I was walking blind, in the dark, a trail that I happened upon.  Each step led me further inside myself, further than I thought I was capable; and though I was frightened to confront myself I felt it was something I could no longer avoid.  As often as I tried to stop, looking back, to retreat from this place I knew that right here and right now it was no longer possible.  There was also a burning curiosity that I could not place that drove me forward, just short of running.  It was still snowing, or had just started, again, and I continued on, now upwards, and towards, a rising sun.  I wasn’t sure if I should be looking for something and how I would know it once I saw it.  I never did realize that there was not a time, while walking, that I felt lost, or disoriented in anyway.  I was too focused on the corridors of my mind leading me, internally, in directions foreign and too underexposed for me to realize the affect it was having on me externally.

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She blinked, twice, pausing between each for an equal amount of time, as if controlled.  She was laying carelessly starring up at a star riddled nightly sky.  She could not remember how she came to be here.  As if the thought really mattered now.  She accepted her new surroundings absolutely without inquiry, submitting completely to the profound.