Dark Horses

-Dark Horses-
by
Keaton Foster

“Creatures as free as these ideas, bled unto the pages of all that I write.”

In this darkness, I sit. In front of this screen, again and again, I dare commit. To these words and by these words, I have become enslaved. I have no life, not one to adequately speak of. I just have this. There have been but a few brief things, but they never seem to stick around. Nothing good for me stays close, in my life and in my heart. I am certain that I am just too broken to be fixed.

I am too saddled by my own deepening neurosis to ever step out into a world that I’m certain is absolute madness. I fear others. I fear all that they do and all that they say. I fear the ways in which they see the real me while I myself refuse. With their hands clasped, they point their judgmental fingers in my direction, further adding to the hell to which I’m accustomed.

All that I have is writing; it is both my salvation and my absolute damnation. I wish beyond all that such things were not so, but they are. Continually, I put these ideas to page for those few of you who understand, for such ideas, and for all that I love about these words and the true depths of my heart and soul they carry. A running testament to what I’m all about.

In a field, yonder clear of all that seems abundantly real, are dark horses. They are running wild because they are unchained by the boundaries of all that is life. They, those dark horses, are representatives of death via escaping, yet-to-be-penned ideas. Such words and ideas are disguised as burdened beasts that are carrying an impossible load. A load far greater than mine. Than yours. Unbearable their duties must seem, yet they continue on as needed, doing what must be done because they know nothing else.

To such a dilemma, relation for me comes with ease.

Such a wild stampede, such an expressionless relief. They do not speak because, after all, they are nothing except wild creatures. Quantifiable animals once growing in number. No longer. Their existence, a culmination in the making. With each new day and every impossible night, more of them run away. Escaping this mind, finding a new paradigm. A place, an idea, out there beyond the cold. Way out there, beyond my twisted role. Out there in a field that goes on and on. Far beyond imagination and removed from any speculation.

They, such dark horses, are absolutely make-believe creations made into something that to me is quite real. I know each one of them because I created each one of them. I understand all of them because, in every way, I am them. They carry life (ideas) away and in turn, they bring death closer to my step. They have no concern for what they do because they are animals first and spectral shards of my imagination last.

Dark horses, bits and pieces of my deepest feelings and ideas, unable, unwilling to be expressed. Set free. Roaming as they see fit, from one endless field to the very next. In time, I have no doubt that they will be gone. Far beyond. Outside my realm, out of my skull. Into the ether of things never to be told.

In time, they will no longer run in stampedes of so many. Soon there will be just a few to carry such an impossible load. One that I’ve burdened them with. One that I’ve saddled them with. One that, as much as I wish, can never be lifted off their spine, thus my own.

When the time comes, when there are only but a few dark horses left, I am certain that my livable life, the one hiding deep within me, will be quite done...


Dark Horses
Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2015.