deceitful lips

Meet 'PUCK'

I wrote this at 4 AM last night [01.16.25]. I haven’t been able to fall asleep until 7 AM these past few days. I can feel my spirit rushing through me. When I hit my head a few weeks ago, something shifted—an emotional breakthrough poured out of me for an entire week. It happened over Christmas, unfortunately, but within a day or two of hitting my head, 'Puck' emerged. It’s as if he finally let himself out, and the fire that followed made him very angry...

My Bridge

My bridge—the place I’ve always found the most comfort in, my home and sanctuary. Its waters are luscious, its rapids golden. The rocks guide the water as it rips through its vast canyon. Moving as if three winters had melted off the mountains all at once. The wood holding the bridge together is rugged—smooth and soft in places, but beaten down where determined hands gripped it with little care on their way into the woods. The aged planks will dig into your skin if you’re not careful—I would know; my skin still carries the tattered scars it left in me. But this bridge is strong and ancient, older than my time, and I can’t imagine a world where I can no longer use it—or worse, the next kid from my town who stumbles upon it, will have no way to cross it.

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I was blessed with full access to the bridge. I admired its intricate engravings and grew calloused from playing on its ancient planks as a child. From cave paintings to amateur graffiti, the bridge is clearly well-traveled. Few from my town ever make it there, and those who do are usually focused on reaching the woods beyond. But this bridge was a rare refuge for me, a place I could add to history and feel seen by the past and the future.

 

I wonder who knows this bridge as I do—who feels the rich air rush through them when they pause to breathe deeply upon it, or feel its rare sunlight kiss their soul at just the right moment. The beauty of this bridge is that it’s always open. Its river is never guarded—no tolls to pay, no riddles to solve—just a long, grueling hike to reach it and an endless world beyond.

 

The hike tears at your heels, leaving blisters, and if you slip, it will scrape your skin with gravel that embeds itself underneath. It takes grit and determination to find the bridge, especially because the base offers calm places to stay and easier paths to follow. If you’re not careful, you’ll get trapped in the mountain’s mud, clinging to you like the smell of track marks in a Nevada gas station gambler’s drawers. Most stumble upon the bridge and skip over it, drawn to the allure of the woods beyond. But I found it to be my refuge.

 

If you can reach the bridge—mud, blisters, and bruises in tow—you can cross into a vast forest of valleys and peaks. There, people will house you, feed you, and help you navigate your journey. The trails are well-trodden, blazed for centuries, and stretch endlessly into the wilderness.

 

Living just a short hike from the bridge, it became an essential part of my exploration. As a child, I was warned never to go beyond the bridge and to return before nightfall, lest I risk being mauled by bears. But I was stubborn and ventured into the woods anyway. Eventually, my parents gave up trying to stop me. They let me explore the woods, and I began to see the bridge for what it truly was: my gateway to the world beyond.

 

As I grew distant from this bridge of my youth, I found myself deep in the woods, lost and confused. 
 

Their Bridge

Wandering for days, I felt the world around me change. The trees withered and dried, their brittle forms breaking under the weight of time.

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