The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of The Skeleton Crew (1|1)

(№1.1)

People nowadays digress and dislodge of it, so persistent, so caring to not believe, to stagger around unfazed and confirm the false-proven, turmoiling calm safety of delicious yet fatal denial. Coaxed and bewitched, they drink and bathe in their lies every single day of their miserable life, a great curative beverage to let fantasy simply be an affair frowned heavenly upon. Thus being only the affair of poets and man-children, fiction a matter you might enjoy occasional for needed servings per day to do yet another thing considered disaster forth-bringing: Escaping reality. The shadows be mere shadows, the monsters under the beds just coils of dust, the ominous unknown idly waiting to be made famous, and within it the lurking, ancient, angsty powers fabricated, fitted to the presumptuous vanity of your mind to conceal the anxious, consistent sentiment of fear, risen in the dark, nurtured by obscurity and tend to by every single heinous fantasy, preferably to rather vacate from this labile territory haunted by dimly silhouettes straying just beyond the flickering light cone of the torches.

The problem only arises and contradictions rise where reality and supposed fiction rally and fight wars, the transitional points, grey and horribly simmering, disputing, where you couldn't assign, categorise, separate one from the other, mended and cleaved, terribly amiably interwoven, linked where lie and truth intersect in an overlap so confusing, deeply troubling even those present couldn't discern myth from utmost, happened, fixed substantiality. That's where bright minds delve in with the tools of philosophy and famed logic, this is the moment most humans despair and succumb in the end to their incapability of discerning the most evidently needed; The  evident, proven mark of reality itself.

Consumed by cleanly cut truth taught and oppressed in their youths, written and translated into their every fibre to fear the unexplained, to subtract oneself from danger with quivering limbs and absolute mortal agony screaming of impeding doom, inseparable from their nature alike to hone curiosity and worship the useful discoveries, made whilst walking on a path surely to hurt.   Fascinating, how fond truth and deceit are of each other, implied in the manner of how frequently and fervently both comply to each other in their lovely embrace provoked by the one to cause all that trouble.       

The rest of the lot, untouched and out of contact with the doubting metropoles, the hot unexplained that do oppose a challenge to dissolve, are an entirely different type of beast to tackle, for most of the people tend not to give their precious words the value of a penny, instead iron bars are spent to contain them in all their zealous effort.

For no matter how strong you try to convince them – to see the truth through the "adulty" mist that concocted over time all alone and was only further vindicated by literature and academical wrongness, clang now to the grown-ups firmly like a second skin, decelerating and working almost like a soothing sedative (fear and curiosity are really like opposite poles, for indifference is always far more effective than fear, for out of fright, anger and hatred might be born next in the heat of the problem) - so in retrospect, you would never succeed. Grey the things they wanted to ignore, deny, grey they turned out to be themselves by causation. The compendium of how to lead such misfortunate lives sufficed in the end, fomenting only to the most minor riddles and problems their whole attention, so importance can slip away.

Neither did they care or even mused earnestly in the possibility of "things" being out there in the wild, things far beyond human imagination and much older than legends and facile tales, that there was in fact something else, silently judging and thriving without human influences.

Yet back in the old days, the times of ancient Empires and fair courts of just kings and soft queens, the days marked by malicious courts led by horrible kings and vicious queens, when paper was sparse and manufactured out of papyrus or animal skin, even looking earlier on be it only little squares cut out of stone, it used to be different. By delving in the arts of rotten, depraved, forbidden mannerisms, by embracing the vices, nature itself seemed to curse villages and long-lost-forgotten towns with irascible Sea, angered Sky and faltering Earth, demise and doom a constant variable expected deeply and anxious alike, mankind was determined to explain all odd phenomenons in all its basic components, panelling the elements from action to reaction, from cause to consequence, much like the fraudulent white light of the sun is revealed to be in reality a conglomeration of all the seven rainbow colours existing, camouflaging in unison as one, being far greater and stronger jointly than apart. They did so with every fibre intent of creating the finest stories of terror and horror, but integrating sincerity and merit thereunto with every bit of great story-telling dexterity and tale-crafting aptitude they could muster. And really did they have to turn their minds upside down for a great fable, for misfortune and misery truly are prone to strike periodically and never to be severed atwain.