His name is Beau. He's a planet, too.
For the sequel to "Discount Shakespeare", it's time to hero the dreams of the child hearts in everyone. Get ready for an adventure of a fourth of a lifetime that's meant to end right before puberty strikes.
This...
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Beau's Regards A relic to remember Poetry by seomins
━━━ ❃ ━━━
In a day or two
"We forget that the imagination-at-play Is at the heart of all good work." — Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way
There's this pastime I partake in as soon as the sun peeks through the clouds, And performs its dawning magic through the jagged cracks of the skylines. I call them "morning pages"—a humble stimulation of my creative juices Which just so happens to get my trusted writing machine up and running. Don't worry, it's harmless. I tried them out for like, a dozen times already. Every page written and filled, back-to-back, at an earlier hour every morning. Sometimes, I write them long before the sun's even up and everything's blue. It's no aurora borealis treading on a harp, but it's the closest I get to winter. The cold lasts for a day or two, anyway. That's enough to keep me inspired. It gets under my skin and builds little icicles that put my goosebumps in a Deep freeze, you know, the mere seconds before dawn sets my heart ablaze.
3 pages. That's all I need to feel reborn, rejuvenated, like I'm 20, minus 10. 3 pages of nonstop writing. Unfiltered, unbothered, unauthorized writing. No abrupt pauses to draw asterisks in lieu of vulgarities. No stuttering in space.
That's when I started seeing things.
Edge to edge, line to line, with the occasional overstepping of upper cases, I believed that they'd start moving if I stared at them long enough. They probably looked like worms due to ink being squiggly by nature, Or born with the endearing burden of losing their balance. I don't blame them, though; who wouldn't take a gander at a notebook And assume that words are teetering on a tightrope? Surely, They'd have a hard time staying in line, right?
Wrong.
Wrong, said the hand that I could've sworn had borne a sixth sense— Gone were the veins that coursed along its skin, stolen in the darkest night By letters that fluctuated in volumes that dawdled playfully on metronomes. This hand was neither left nor right. It was alive. It drew me forward and further, Through the loops of its G's, the curls of its Q's and the shells of its O's. Had I taken even a second longer to stare at it, it might've drenched my eyes with ink!
Eat your heart out, Coraline!
How childish, I thought, for paper to want playdates. How could it so recklessly Let my senses experience the same mind-grappling-matter marvels of a hallucination? It was a hand made of words. An honest-to-God word hand that I could hold. And it felt rusty, like sickly sandpaper that's aged a million el niños. But it was light. Weightless, even. The perfect fit for hands that colored it stoked. It pulled me into the pages. The letters lining it jolted at exponential speed. They were excited. Amped. Charged. Psyched out of their own damn minds To have me here, hand in hand, being in being, in a world of wonders built by a pen. They wasted no time making me one of them, a woman of her prints and cursives.
Suddenly, I could feel my heart beat in rhythm and time
To the sound of synths and snare drums in the distance,
