Once upon a time there was a magic stick, magic by the fact that it held within the power of language, of thought, and of understanding. This stick was absolved from its bond to the trunk by a very peculiar bolt of lightning one Indian summer. The stick lay for ages amongst the other forest litter, never decaying one bit as the seasons rolled by and over.
A long ways away lived a small boy of imagination's ways, one with eyes for the shadows, and sight for things moving about that most never saw. It was by chance that the boy chose when he did to wander down that lane, but it was fate pure that whisked him into the arms of one merchant of young flesh.
Woe, before continuing, it is important to state that this is no story of ill-ending. In fact, its very purpose is the revelation and triumph that the tale holds. Though the path to this happy plane is crowded with some shock and much horror, one must traverse to find the end, else they must end themselves here, and have none of it.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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