words written in a coffee shop, a year and a month ago3:20 PM
There is a dragon, fighting a mother-of-pearl unicorn, outside my bedroom window. The trees groan, trying to bear the weight of the brawl. The leaves flutter to the ground, quickly forgotten consequences of the war above.
The dragon breathes fire and its claws are silver with unicorn blood. Yet its foe is unharmed, the unicorn horn glistening like the trophy of a battle already won.
I cannot choose sides, for that would be to make an enemy of myself. I am both adversaries, and it is myself who wars.
Reason, like a dragon of fury, quick to draw blood and destroy, is after the unicorn of my dreams, a thing of beauty that is not meant for battle. But it is armed with a weapon sharper than glass, able to pierce the heart of logic at the slightest provocation.
They battle today and they will battle tomorrow. And all I can do is watch, and mourn, and celebrate both the victor and the vanquished. I know that neither will ever win, but that they will war, on and on, until the creases around my mouth have deepened, and the wrinkles hide my eyes, and I am crowned with immortality.
It is a losing battle, and yet I am the victor.