My mind is not of my own. How often I dream, how often I wish to express my emotions in ways never seen before. In my mind, I dance, like stars above, but my body refuses the motions I envision. My ears hear the wonderous writings of my creating, yet I cannot recreate to for others. My eyes behold to the vision of works, unlike any seen before, and yet I when faced with a canvas, my mind goes still. The works, all swirling like storms, unable to be soothed, harass me day and night. Yet, there is one dream that brings me comfort, and that is of the well. It is this well that I pursue, for it sings a song, sweeter than any heard before, and I cannot fully rest until I know its author.
My family believes me to be mad, yet they are the ones who insist that there is no music to be heard. How can I trust them, when they have closed their mind to the sounds of this world? And so, I set off in search of this well. I spent countless days first roaming the forests surrounding my hometown, but to no avail. Undaunted I continued, plunging deeper and deeper into ancient woods, leaving for days on end, only to return, ravenous and defeated. Worse yet, the dreams did not lessen, in fact, they seemed to grow more all-consuming every time I returned home as if to punish me for not finding the well. I could see it, and could hear its beautiful music, calling to its old, stone rim. I feared that I may never find what I truly desired. The dreams ever haunting me, eventually seemed to desire to drive me mad. It, at last, came to a breaking point, and I rushed from the house of my father and ran as fast as I could trying to escape the things of my mind.
I know not how long I ran, or in what direction, but at last, I collapsed about the floor on rotting leaves, heaving for breath. My body ached and for a short time, I believed I could not move. I looked around, I did not recognize this place, the trees seemed to be swollen, and a low mist hung in the air. It was as I was trying to gather myself, and address the task of finding my way home that I heard it, the song. At first, I ignored it, thinking it was only in my head, but then I realized, it was my ears that were hearing that sweet, sweet, melody, the song of the well. Now I hastened, my clothes drenched in sweat, after the song. I hurried, despite my body’s protest, out of fear that the song might disappear. Finally, I came crashing through a thicket of brambles, and there it was the well. Standing within a small clearing, small flecks of sunlight swimming around it, the ancient stones covered in moss, and the old wooden roof looked like it might wither away at any moment. The music was louder now, and with every step, it grew in volume, until at last I stood at the edge, and was enveloped by the angelic music. With a trembling hand, I reached for the weathered stone of its wall, and as soon as I touched it, the music stopped. I looked around suddenly in fear, but it started again, this low and soft song coming from the deep belly of its chamber. It was so faint I could scarcely hear it, so I leaned over the edge trying to soak in every note. I hung there for a second, but the old stones I leaned on gave way, and I plummeted down.
The water engulfed me, as I struggled to free myself from its grip, clawing at the algae-coving stones, trying to find so grip or hold, to no avail. The inky tendrils of the stagnant water seemed to pull me down in my struggle, with one last breath, I closed my eyes and was submerged. It was cold, as I sank, I thought of all I thought of life, so many wasted questions, so many fears, not that they mattered now. I thought of my family, and how I would miss them, and if they would miss me. Then, a new memory, I saw, a woman, dancing, she weaved and circled, leaped and bowed, she danced a dance, I had made. Startling, another one came, this time an older man, with a canvas in front of him, those strokes, those lines, were all too familiar. More and more came. I saw a young man, finish a story of my imagining, a woman playing a song that I had envisioned. Surely, I thought, these are hallucinations, and in trying to return to reality, I opened my eyes expecting to be greeted by the cold void. The small amount of light, fractured by the water, revealed a different scene. Instead of a dark abyss, were thousands of other people, floating in some kind of space. They hung there, as if it was natural, all with their heads turned up the source of light, all smiling. It was then I understood, I understood why the well had called for so long. Artistry is a two-way street, there are those who form the thoughts, the designs, the stories, and rhythms. Then there are those who put them to action. I was not wasted, I was not forgotten, for each song someone sang, painting painted, I was remembered, my dreams would be fulfilled! I turned my head to the light, and closed my eyes, content with my fate, and let the visions of my works overtake me…
Author Notes: Some of my earlier writing, C&C welcome.