Eternal Light of the Innocent Mind
It was the night of celebration, strung lanterns filled the streets with dim lights, the fragility of the lanterns were tested as the slight summer breeze ran its course through the street ways and pavilions. The scent of orange blossoms filled the air with such an aroma, people passing by would stop and breathe, appreciating every moment of it. It was the time of coming together, the festival of light, yet the light in the heart of one individual was hidden away behind words of ink and past memories.
Tempest Fyreheart was a young boy living in a small town known as Hickory’s Nest, South of the City of Lementia. Midnight black hair, medium length, passing the lobes of his ears if he didn’t tie it up. The colour of his eyes were hazel, his skin was olive in texture with a touch of reddish white hue. Medium in height, broad shoulders and a toned body, with a distinctive scar under his right shoulder blade. Tempest rarely spoke, for every conversation he had with another individual, he surpassed over one hundred with himself, the depth of his mind would be explored further and further, until he had to resurface to breathe the scent of this reality. A trait he was born with, but like a dual-edge sword, this gift could also be a curse. He would have momentary daydreams throughout the day whenever his anxiety would peak, reflecting in the form of arbitrary images, a mixture of raw emotion and deep pain.
Yet no amount of logical reasoning could explain what he had felt day in and day out. In moments where his heart and mind would scream, he would remain silent and contemplate.
Tempest opened his leather-bound book and began to write:
~ Lights Will Guide You Home ~
’Upon the streets of despair, you walk, upon the pavement of pride you stalk...
Searching for a light, any light to guide you home. The night air pierces your facade, the palm trees swaying slightly in the wind.
You contest the dark, like you contested fate... which in the end only heartache followed. You remember the shudder from your first kiss.
You remember your luckless romance... oh how you tried.
The night engulfs you.
You touch your lips ever so softly, and as if it was rehearsed,
you smile... you remember him, don’t you?
You start to feel warm inside. The dark night remains silent... suddenly there is a flicker of hope, follow it... for the lights will guide you home.’
~ Warm Blood Turned Cold ~
’Warm blood turned cold makes the world turn, surrounded by the materialistic, yet I still yearn, for a life so calm and serene I learn,
how life coincides with death and in turn, beauty follows destruction, to bloom and to burn.’
As the hours drifted by, the flickering of the candle made the shadows dance across the bedroom wall. The gathering outside his residential block diminished as the moon meticulously eased away to give rise to the coming dawn. The antique clock in the corner of his room did not shy from showing its hand… tick-tock, tick-tock, the systematic movement of the antique clock laid the grounds of inner-reflection in the mind of Tempest. The clock’s hand continually moves, regardless of the situation it is in, yet it cannot escape its fate, progressing on the whim of perceived time. Tempest gazed upon the candle situated upon his writing desk made of red cedar; posing a question to himself, ‘What is the fate of unrequited love? To what reaches of the world do I need to travel in order to free my mind?’ - By the turn of the next page, Tempest answered his own rhetoric;
~ Sanctuary of Our Dreams ~
’Why is it that we love like there is no day after? We grasp realisation firmly, satisfied on what or who we have in our arms.
Yet when we lose the person or thing we love, we cannot accept realisation. The same realisation that kept us happy and sane, now torments us.
Why do we dream of love yet to be experienced?
We cannot deny our dreams, like we cannot deny a sunrise. So, as we deal with the tormenting realisation, our pain is subsided in the sanctuary of our dreams.
So, when my sanctuary is tainted with the image of you, I am trapped. Trapped between twisted dreams, those which were once seen as a place of sanctuary, and realisation.
When I lay my head down at night, I fear that I will see your beautiful image when I close my eyes. So, I open my eyes wide, absorbing the darkness around me.
As I stare into the nothingness around me, I realise the sanctuary of my own mind’s making...envying the beauty of death.’
~ Confines of the Mind ~
’As I seek the remedy to my own rhetoric, what is the cure for this desire of mine?
I can travel the world, visit every Citadel or Monastery,
Breathe the air upon every mountain top and lowland valley.
I can visit every empire and civilisation…
But I cannot escape the confines of my own mind.’
Before long, Tempest found himself drifting off to sleep, the sound of chirping from the birds just before the break of dawn could faintly be heard. Tempest gave a quick look to his packed belongings on the right side of this red cedar desk, double checking that he packed all his gear for his departure to Lementia; the capital of Lyne, the birthplace of Tempest Fyreheart.
Tempest was an orphan, verified by his Aunty Lavender whenever Tempest would enquire as to whether there was a chance that his parents were alive, every year he would travel to Lementia to seek out the truth, and every year he would return with nothing to show for it.
This year however, Argyle, the one friend that was always there for him, agreed to venture out into the city of Lementia with Tempest.
There was an eerie feeling surrounding the dream that night, nothing made sense. There was complete darkness as Tempest felt himself free-falling into the abyss, the feeling of dread and loss was creeping upon him, manifesting as black hands trying to hold him down.
For a moment, Tempest had given up, he had nothing to fight for, nothing to live for; and in the moment of defeat he heard a woman’s voice call out to him. The sound of the voice did not pass through his ears; it was clearer than that, as if a direct telepathic message was sent;
“The heart is home to those who seek, treasures which reveal themselves only to the meek,
Across hills of gold, the rose did travel, in time we will meet…” – Silence soon followed.
Morning hit hard, the sound of the alarm clock unapologetically broke his slumber, it was 8:35am and Tempest was running late. As he rushed around his room half awake, frizzy hair, he had no time to waste. “This shouldn’t have happened! Didn’t I set the alarm to 7:30am?” said Tempest, talking to himself as he began to shower and brush his teeth at the same time.
Tempest hastily dressed himself and headed towards his packed belongings. “This time I will find answers, I know I will!”, said Tempest in a confident move to keep his morale up – ‘Knock, knock, knock.’
“Come in”, called out Tempest, tidying up around the red cedar desk. Aunty Lavender appeared.
“Dear, Argyle is waiting downstairs with his belongings, are you two going to sight see at Lementia? Stay safe Tempest.” She moved slowly towards Tempest with her left hand grasping an object; “this belonged to my older brother, your father, I think you should have it. He told me to give it to you on your eighteenth birthday, so here it is.” Aunt Lavender soon opened her grasp, hidden inside was an amulet; a thin silver chain with a small circle-like cage with what looked to be a gemstone. Tempest politely took the chain, hugged his Aunty Lavender and rushed downstairs to Argyle.
Tempest had totally forgotten that it was his birthday, ‘just another day’, he would usually say. As expected, Argyle was in the back of the taxi he had ordered, waving frantically for Tempest to hurry.
“You’re late”, said Argyle in a slightly annoyed tone.
“Sorry about that, I had a late night, and didn’t sleep well. I had a weird dream.” replied Tempest.
“Was it about Sonia?” asked Argyle. “You know you can always talk to me Tempest.”
The name took Tempest by surprise. An old love, memories which would haunt him at the most unexpected moments, seemed to resurface.
“Uh… no.” Tempest responded.
“It was just…”, he paused to work out exactly what he was going to say.
“It’s okay brother, I’m here for you either way,” said Argyle, as he began shifting through his belongings. The sound of plastic being unravelled was surprisingly loud, Argyle then paused, looking at Tempest with a smile on his face.
“Happy eighteenth birthday, little brother! Watch out Lementia, here we come!” retorted Argyle, putting his right arm around Tempest’s shoulder. Argyle himself was twenty-two, 6.5ft tall and a bear’s body to go with it. Tempest looked tiny in comparison to Argyle; his fists were half the size of Tempest’s head, his forearms were just as thick. His hair was ginger, cut short yet his beard remained.
“You know, you might have the brains little brother, but I get the girls,” chuckled Argyle as he pulled something out of his bag; a red scarf with black edges, very soft to touch, yet it reacted with a shudder and a small whimper to Tempest’s touch. Tempest paused.
“Did that scarf just make a sound?” asked Tempest in a concerned tone.
“It’s a Mooshi. Honestly, I don’t know what it is. My father gave me strict orders in his letter to give you it. Something about it belonging to your father?” continued Argyle in an inquisitive manner.
“Your guess is as good as mine, Argyle. You know this is the second time today I’ve been given something from a father I have never met. Why now? I mean, eighteen years a bit late, wouldn’t you say?” replied Tempest, as he pulled an odd looking crows feather from the Argyle’s jumper.
“Everything happens in due time Tempest, let it be and make the most of today. Today is a special day, besides, we have another 30 minutes until we get to the train station at Starryborrow,” Argyle reminded Tempest, as he was packing the newly gifted scarf inside his bag. Tempest responded with an accepting nod, sat back and gazed outside the taxi’s window.
The sky was clear, except for the odd bubble-like clouds which would slowly travel in their destined path, ‘Imagine what it would be like flying in the clouds’, Tempest thought to himself, closing his eyes for a while. Moments past before he opened his eyes again. He reached into his small black leather side bag; its interior lining was of red velvet. His hand emerged with his diary.
~ Hill Crested Clouds ~
’Upon hill created clouds, of orange in texture, thy beauty remains untouched by the setting sun.
And, upon the setting of true worth, will the sun’s rays disappear.
Thy beauty to the eye, of which I adore, thy beauty to my lips, of love I cannot ignore.’
~ Unconscious Love ~
’Unconsciously we love. Unconsciously we hate. Unconsciously we fear that what we might say, the other might hate.
Unconsciously we laugh. Unconsciously we cry. Unconsciously we fell in love when we saw eye to eye.’