Dear John,

I must leave you for awhile, but I will be back.  That gift of yours, your most precious of gifts, cannot be abided.

You see.  Even in the darkest night there is a little light and as dreadful as it is, it permeates everything.   And there is color… color to fill a spectrum with names all over, names created by you, just made up jargon that rolls in your mouth and gives noise to hang it on.  You see a thing.  You hear a word.  You do that over and over then dumb it down.  You forget a few.  You add a few.  You change a few.  It continues on and on… silly.

The blasted light and your precious eye!  A gift so misplaced.  Animals.  You have eyes!  You have eyes and do not see.  You do not see the right thing.

You throw words around like they make a matter.  What are words to your precious eyes?  Don’t answer that.  Why should your answer interest me?  Don’t answer that either.

Long ago, before your words took root, we ventured and paraded in your light.  We took a few of you below.  We listened.  We saw.  We used senses you know nothing about.  And, though a few of us did for a time rout about causing mischief, and a few may still ponder about up there, we, from most parts, returned below, above… around.  You wouldn’t get it.  Don’t try.

I’m not being fair, or clear, and I don’t care.  It is enough that I’m less bored enough to play with your words and jot down a few for you to find the next time you tidy up your bedroom.

As you see so do we.  Time has rent it’s bend on you and us.  Our interests, our worlds, come closer in scope every day.  That beloved eye of yours, in your thick-skulled head with its shallow grooved brain, will one day spread from that seed of a hindbrain.

It’s exciting.  One day that precious gift that keeps you safe, pure happenstance as it may be, one day that gift will wilt and flake.  And there I will be, in the hateful light… herald? harbinger?  Mere words.  Your words won’t be able to describe that day.

My left foreclaw has a good strong talon – a point to draw blood, a serrated edge to slice that flimsy ‘cloth’ you use to hide your many weaknesses.  I admire its dull sheen in the gloom just within the light, your light.  But don’t worry.  Not yet.  Not yet.  Not while your precious gift, that manufactured thing, protects you.

The light brought you your pitiful eyes.  Your words destroyed all concepts, all purity.  All of that misguided rot shapes your beloved reality.  But that defective actuality is not the gift.  No.  That’s not what wilts, what flakes away.  That is something else.  Something your brain’s word bound world calls innocence.

When that is gone…  I dance – left hoof, right hoof – I marionette up and down – my scaly fur all a-bristle.  We shall see – both you and me.  One day, that day.  You will see… and I don’t mean with those ridiculous eyes.

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Jason Lairamore is a man seeking to become multitalented and self sufficient while remaining a perfect husband, a loving father of three children, and a medical professional.