Halloween Craft Club Writing.

This is the script I have written, something manipulative like a number of musical guests haunting a soundstage, righteous in their wars, but still taking my stubborn ailments to mean that I am something better then them.

It could be that I am writing this to you from my home, but I believe it to be the haunted cellar of the tavern you frequent regularly. It has been there for 700 years and has not changed its name. This is the place that has been a resting spot for the mighty kings and conquered people. It has survived many uprisings and has never been torn down. The building believes whatever the kind people who created it made it think. They are parts of their own stories. They belong to these thoughts, and I call them to oppose my haunting.

The cellar is made of an office, which I have made my bedroom, and a wine room, that may have once been a dungeon but has many times been made over since. It is in that room that I have my desk set up, this typewriter cracking away and the essence of delusion brings my heart towards the weapon. These words are the weapons, and only with them can we belong to the fauns. These words are the woes of the weapons, those that hurt and maim, along with turbulent houses. These are the houses razed by war. These are the places that haunt me.

I am no longer kind. I am mean and I have a reason to be.

I cannot recall that reason, but I know it to be real.  I am going to do things right and that means nobody is going to stand in my way. This is now my war. The right thing to do and the “what I came to” keeps me trapped in this cellar. I know that, but I still want the regretful revenge. These thoughts make me make use of my time, as I still sit and type like a refugee, pausing slowly when people come downstairs to see if anyone is down here. There is a passerby now, but I don’t think he is in your dimension. It seems he is in the next one over from mine.

Meeting Crispin

We have the received truth, the design if fleeing from thinking about it. The design when we watch the television brings the evolution of mind. These are the hopeful thoughts that want me to bring hearts towards topics. The way is not marked by better than insults and tomes that watch failure brightly colored as watchmen. I have the hopeful nature that thinks these are the better-borrowed watchers. They are there because the weapons are looking squarely at their own bleak mortality.

Whether we face the reality that is bleak, or whether we walk away and dance among the thoughtless stars, those are our decisions, I thought. That is when the man named Crispin entered. He was very old, but seeming boisterous while looking for me. I could not understand what I might have that he wanted, me - of all people. There were champions of thought that were driving me mad, I was haunted by the history of money, hoping that it would give me some insight in the savings account that I have been neglecting throughout my twenties. I was quite excited to be told that this man had a story for me. When I sat down, it was quickly apparent that there was more than one story that Crispin could tell me.

The people say that we can spiritualize physics, but anyone can say what they want. Across religious traditions we are approached by a number of mystics, so one cannot take lightly any philosophy that is found within the walls of muses and mystery. Within any civilization, people of all genders, races and abilities explain the metaphysics and emotional intuition in different ways. There is hope that all the varied paths could be one, but that sort of thinking is as dangerous as thinking that only yours is the one. All people can come together as significant thinkers, if given the skills and inspiration.

This man has a story to tell, something that he feels needs to be said, that is why he called me. It could be one of redemption through an inspired form of therapy that he is creating with his friends, or tales of daring escapes from behind enemy lines. This book could be tales of travel to exotic lands. It could dazzle and inspire the reader. There could be a world within his eyes, as the desire of learning and living had not yet been extinguished. There was a cooperation that was needed, some sort of thought that would tie the whole place together, and a kind of necessary evil – one of those limitless fogs that make every draft a first draft.

Perhaps I should discuss my own philosophy, and then learn Crispin’s, so that I can learn with the reader, who silently wonders exactly what is going on here. First of all I believe in the absurd. That is to say I believe it works wonders when one is feeling like they have learned too much. I also feel that people should love learning and learn every day. There has got to be a way, found within the hope of written word, the diaries and scribbling’s of mad person, lit because they were hopeful and found online at the website needed to find these words.

I also feel that there is wisdom in everyone, that everyone knows something that you don’t and will share that information with you if you get to know him or her. That is why I am excited to discuss this philosophy with this old man. He wants to write a book that walks us through the house of self… There is hope within it, and the written word may bring my perception towards a little bit of a better thought. I will at least learn.

Good, right? Because we are all looking to learn as much as we can, high on the elves that bring hope towards us. I could watch because they told me and I must believe in the silence, as it hopes and breathes like the day. I must take hold of someone great and live within him or her. This will make me wise. This will make me discuss great things. This is where I am divided, for this is the reality within these walls of my mind. There is a better world ahead, when I know more or think less. I can see it.

I once took a chest full of armor from inside my psyche and gave them to friends I thought needed them. I thought it was the right thing to do, but I thought that I could do my mission from god without armor, you know, like in video games when you want to prove you are the best. There is hopefully a thought within the daily silence and the overwhelming feeling that I think about myself too much. I know now that that was just my first manic break. Really it was just the first time I felt I had a mission from God. They come back from time to time as someone tortures me because he doesn’t want to go to hell and they think they can defeat me by force and emotional manipulation, or at least that’s what it feels like.

So I am not, as they say, exactly the specimen needed to study the entire human species. I am somehow unique, probably like everyone, perhaps because there was the silent night and the reasonable thoughts and the watering can and the muses.