On Balance Weighted- Cafe

"Words over the void

Here I have nothing, they say

But potential blooms

Besides, there is light

Still remembered from before

A sliver in mind

A strand in mind's eye

So the brothers separate

In absentia

Still on spinning ball

Waters divide much the same

Blue water, blue sky

The sun is shining

Though rise and set might be seen

Differently today

Filled with all that grows

One looks left and one looks right

Fox feet on all sides

In an image, love

Love for another, love forged

To add and bear fruit

'"So the dream begins

One sleeps and one multiplies

One walks, one watches."'"

I find myself in a cafe, stirring these dreams away until they, like that which they occupy, turn a sepia tone. Neither too dark and bitter, none shiny and white robed. I remember these times, but I also remember this is not the path I take now and I look up, scanning the room. Nothing looks out of place here, still something feels different, more tangible than most days. That's when I spot him, my dream brother, at what might be called the nexus of tangibility that I am sensing, from my perspective. As if noticing my noticing of him, he looks up and scans as well. After some familiar glances at the "most likely to be out of place" corners he pauses, and then looks directly at me. He drops his spoon, and the tinkling of metal on mug might as well be the shattering of a dropped tray of glasses. Everything feels so quiet here, but I realize that it is not the decibels perse, but the clockwork consistency of these and most surroundings, making each noise anticipated and foremuted, each noise so far, except for that single dropping of the spoon. I realize that, for him, I am the unexpected variable in this place, that in my unbridled nature I offer something new, something different, and by his smile it seems that anything different is a welcome change. "Tell me a tale, Bard, of how it is you have arrived here, as well suited as you are for this place, or really anything you would like. I am in the mood to be inspired, on this night like any other, suddenly brightened by a stranger's light."

I consider for a time before replying, though consideration feels like an exaggeration at best, as I feel that old familiar sense of having brought no lighter to set imaginations ablaze, my own included. "What to write, what to say, what to produce that might be said to possess that sought spark of new? I know this topic itself is nothing new, for it has echoed in many a story in my hearing, and in my own halls more than once, yet still I hear it whispered now, as the sound of silence falling where once the spark was found. I imagine every author must feel this at one time or another, for each spark lasts but a moment, and while one spark might burn an entire field, of size that seems incalculable whilst chasing the blaze, in a sense one remains in that moment of the spark until spark's flame subsides. In this ash, as one walks, is it possible not to think 'I may never find that spark, any spark, again'? So it is for me oft' on a morning after a sleepless night; though I have become rather adept, if I do say so myself, at making something from this shimmer shine nothing sometimes leaves. It is just The Storyteller's Knack for elongation, like a cook stretching out their supplies, or a man stretching his one warm garment on a cold night. As threads pull, it is not like he is not made more warm with the same fabric; when the meal is finished it is not like their bellies are not more full than before it began, despite scavenged and sometimes hollow ingredients, even if strength won't surge quite the same the next day. Likewise our ears and minds fill with words and thoughts, perhaps ultimately in new combinations upon further consideration, even if those words are a fancy reframing of a lack of words to be found. In essence, sometimes the lack of a spark is the very spark one seeks, when finding oneself in the charcoal dark."

"Enigmatic as usual I see." He takes a sip of his coffee and checks his watch. "How about a poem then for the road? I have another place in mind for us to be, while we're both here." Not one to turn down such an invitation, I compile a few words into cohesive form, feeling a spark of some kind once again taking form.

"To be or be not, was question once posed

We assume much control over our fate

One gate opens when another is closed

Such is forever the traveler's state

To cease to exist seems tricky indeed

A choice hard earned by scars, if found at all

Let's set aside this dagger and proceed

False words unsaid, banking on no such fall

For this season's hell could be so much worse

To know road lies ahead, but she does not

So we meter stride and hide truth in verse

That in footfalls may bloom this love long sought

Without love what lay ahead but long walk?

Thus interpose here, take stand now, and talk."

I can tell my subject was unexpected, and it lands heavily now on the table between us like paying the check with pennies in sack. He sips his coffee one more time, buying a few more seconds to consider his response, and then seems to decide that this will be business as usual. He throws down what appear to be actual bills to pay, grabs his coat, and then motions me out with him. I shrug, stranger things have happened, I would imagine. With nothing in particular tethering me here I follow my brother into the refreshingly cool night.