I read you this morning and I had to go away and think, I couldn't understand much of what you wrote because I had brave new worlds, people, Dragons, watchers, and keepers to tend to.
I've done you the honour of replying this time with my personal account since you are indeed someone that interests me.
But as I sit here tonight I read you with brilliant clarity. It's weird how the mind works like that, or mine at least, anyway.
I'm a young soul. It's interesting isn't it? Reading your work has me feeling like I'm warming my hands on the stories that have lived for a thousand years. Every time you write, it takes me into a trance!
Yet me? I may be old in age but I'm the type of man that will seek out fire, get too close to it, cup my hands over it, and if I'm lucky play with it.
I often get way way too close the the fire. I'm very young, innocent, naïve; I'm the kind of guy that will jump two feet into something not really thinking about where I'm going or where it's headed.
I married a very old soul. She protects me from the fire, sometimes to her annoyance! (lol)
Life seems to be like that -- all I've done throughout my life has been to collect old souls; those that have wanted to protect me from myself but live through my youthfulness and boundless energy vicariously.
It's been an interesting journey, and one that I feel that's just beginning!
It's like I'm waking up, seeing things that I've never seen before, hearing things I've never heard before -- a year ago I would have read your work and thought to myself, wow, I don't understand any of this -- nor do I care.
But now? I revere in the brilliance of it, even although I can't emulate it, even though I wish I could! But I know there's a pile of books waiting for me that my wife has already pegged out if I want to understand more.
Anyway,
It's a weird one. I often look on the eyes of old souls; weary, withered, battered, with the weight of the world, my natural instinct is to envelope them like a warm blanket of happiness.
Now that I'm waking up I understand the bitter sweetness of it all -- the excited to be knowing, and the burden of knowing itself.
RE: Underneath the Rotting Floor