#but this soooonnnnnggggggg (ง ͠ಥ_ಥ)ง

[chichiricatsan]

| "The Ribbon" || The Stupendium (ft. Cami-Cat) |

At the edge of understanding, the border of the known The breaking point of reason, where logic is dethroned Where sense is defenseless and festers on the bone One writer fights a cycle, trying to write a way back home In Night Springs Tonight’s episode: "The Ribbon"

We open, our protagonist, brash, pragmatic, fantasist Trapped within a cabin, frantic, grappling with a manuscript Passionately grasping for a catalyst but the syntax isn’t landing Grabs the draft out from the carriage and abandons it Hе doesn’t really know quite what hе’s writing, but he has to Sits enraptured in the flow of what he’s typing Cramping wrists, his hands in fits The hammers slam the characters, they writhe and dance and twist But never seem to parse more than "surviving" As the grammar shifts A bulb, it flickers for a moment, darkness falls for just a second But it lingers, forms unspoken, hark the call, the shadows beckon Swallowed dawn, still all-consuming, every corner lurking, looming Hear the ichor hymns so soothing as the screaming silence deafens Another page, a hurried scrawl, a night replays, a dozen more Another failed and crumpled ball of "almost, maybe" on the floor Framed within the maze within the print His escape from all this hinges on which page becomes the door

Existence is cast in the answers we write To riddles in chapters that can’t be defined Pigment of black and the parchment of white The figments they track through the dark to the light The hammers and keys and the patterns they weave The fragments of me that they trap in between We all have to write on the pages we’re given But you can’t live life on both sides of the ribbon Tied to the ribbon

Legacy, it is the dream of any creative to leave their mark Indelible, on the world around them (Which side of the ribbon?) But be careful what marks such an obsession might leave on you

Another chapter opens, but our hero isn’t sure If the pattern is unbroken, has he penned this page before? Is he writing what he’s lived or now reliving what he’s written? Every end with failed beginnings, cast adrift within the lore On a lake that turned to ocean, drowning under weight of legacy When any sentence could be sentenced as the last they ever see Our pages pass relentless, count or not, there is no remedy And so, he sits again, attempts to pen pre-emptive threnody Amorphous in memoriam, in effigy uncertain Unsure if all this really is himself, at least, a version? But these whispers grip the narrative Treat sense with bleak aversion Tendrils bend and break immersion Twisting cursive through recursion His words branch out in paths too dark to follow through trees With pages piled so high, he’s lost the forest for leaves No saying what’s to believe, it doesn’t want him to leave And so these pages end up bound to make the story repeat

Wake up, day starts as the night falls See what dark part of your mind calls You can’t fight what you write and you write what we like Find the light, you might see how the bright fall (You'll need the proper tools to get a proper service) (You won't believe the things that hide) (Right there beneath the surface) Hopelessly floating through tomes with no way of knowing If you are composing or you’re just quoting The prose you’re sewing Ergo ergodic, eroding your ego Going for broke but just broken (No fixer-upper like the coffee pot a-flowin') A hero’s journey burdened by the characters deployed When all your thousand faces are so narratively void Were the adjectives employed worth the marriage you destroyed? (You know huntin' is a hobby the whole family can enjoy)

Deep in the dark and winding eaves of your mind Read from a saga, blind but reaching in kind Leads down a path where leaves and secrets entwine Even apart, two heroes, one storyline Small town - And I know the narrative conventions Establishing shots in the dark A plot with an arc beyond all comprehension I’ll be the first person to admit the present is tense and Not sure if I’ll get these words to fit the presence descending I hear it calling my name, I feel me falling away Chasing these pages but questioning my agency Tasked with a story to break I hear it calling my name, I feel me falling away Am I a character? Actor? A passenger? Cast from the shores of a lake?

Existence is cast in the answers we write To riddles in chapters that can’t be defined Pigment of black and the parchment of white The figments they track through the dark to the light The hammers and keys and the patterns they weave The fragments of me that they trap in between We all have to write on the pages we’re given But you can’t live life on both sides of the ribbon Tied to the ribbon

Creativity, it is the impetus of any artist To pour themselves into their work (Which side of the ribbon?) But pour too much And you might not like what you find at the bottom of the bottle...

Our hero, once again attempts to find the words he lacks And peers between the lines to see the lines observing back A scratch all too familiar and, oh! The surface cracks What’s the matter, Alan? We can’t both be worthless hacks Now, I know what you’re thinking "This is crazy! Oh, he can’t exist!" You could have made a killing Just embraced a little masochist ‘Stead you’re dried up Trying to earn a living from a manuscript But have you tried for just one second Living as the man you script? I’m the parts you were ashamed of, I’m the parts you tried to fight I’m the parts you told yourself didn’t keep you awake at night I’m the part of you that’s better, you just can’t concede I’m right So, you poured me into pages, then I guess I’m just your type You meld work with your self-worth But tell me, what does that sell for? And was the journey through Hell worth How short you fell on the bell curve? Then one day they’ll forget you, ooh! But I’ve stories to tell first ‘Cause I’m that face that you gave them to be you And baby, I’m well versed What am I when you’re already a shadow of yourself? Tell me who would look at this And then take that down off the shelf? You had it, buddy! All of it! The fame, the glam, the wealth But what’s it worth if you won’t play the hand the round has dealt? "Nightmares don’t use logic" Yeah, we know that you can read Sat there hoping for the credits But it’s me who’s supposed to lead All that hokum in your head But where’s the quote to make you see? That perhaps you're antithetical to the poetry of me!

Existence is cast in the answers we write To riddles in chapters that can’t be defined Pigment of black and the parchment of white The figments they track through the dark to the light The hammers and keys and the patterns they weave The fragments of me that they trap in between We all have to write on the pages we’re given But you can’t live life on both sides of the ribbon Tied to the ribbon, the ribbon, the ribbon, the ribbon Which side of the ribbon, the ribbon, the ribbon, the ribbon?

Another chapter ended, but not an arc adjourned A narrative repeating for a plot he can’t discern He’s writing a Departure, but he’s still yet to learn That every line he starts must always end at the Return

And there you have it A vicious cycle scored by the hammer of keys And the ring of the typewriter A writer cursed to relive his own words Trapped in a world of his own making A novel concept Everyone likes to get lost in a good book But be careful what you read In Night Springs