Strongly Advised Audio Sanctuary:
Atmosphere Trying To Find a Balance
noun – the strongest or central tower of a castle, acting as a final refuge.
It seems only fitting that the Keeper of The Crimson Quill would take asylum in such a stronghold. Right now I am barricaded in, immune from any situations out of my control. Nothing can harm me in The Keep, think of a panic room and then bind its fortifications with barbed wire and you may be in the right stratosphere. This place is on lock down, the only person in here that I have to please is myself and it just so happens I know exactly how to get my jollies.
The Keep may appear sparse to casual onlookers, it walls are magnolia in hue and it doesn’t reflect Keeper one iota. Within these defenses however is access to any one of 2000 Horror movies, past and present. I have always been known as something of a hoarder and I guess now that it was just preparation for the big lock-in. If I don’t feel like watching a film then my tried and true quill is on hand to offer company. Failing that, well I do possess a penis.
Keeper is a mystery to so many yet, in actuality, there isn’t a more straightforward fellow around than I. My largest flaw is that I spend 24 hours of my 365 days each year just craving one meager little thing…happiness. That’s it, no startling reveal. Should I manage to attain a state of contentment then my wings reach span. I transmogrify from a puny withering spam musket to a flourishing void touching phoenix. Faster than Scissorhands can fashion a mullet, I level-up.
For eight months now I have offered my take on life, the things that make us tick and the relationships we form. I’m no Jesus, neither do I claim to be. But I do have exclusive insight, thirty nine years worth. I also have a voice and it just so happens I’m mighty proud of this particular mouth token. Finally it opens, after being pursed for what seems an eternity. It’s like the whole of my mortality has been one long reconnaissance mission, gathering Intel for the Rivers of Grue revolution. Now, through the marvels of internet technology, I can reach out and touch another. Together in electric dreams, we all become exulted.
Bad feeling spreads like any viral ailment. One rotten apple is enough for a singular tree to contend with but, when the foliage in question stretches the length and breadth of our planet, well let’s just say don’t drink the cider. Now, Keeper is the kind of apple who will gladly help out a fellow fruit in need. I’ve never been an every apple to themselves kind of crop and can be downright chivalrous when called into conference. However, I have never claimed to be saintly. If I start to perish then I do what any spheroid would do in the same set of circumstances…I keep myself to myself. Ignorance really is bliss on such occasions.
Being so laid back that a Buddha would feel erect alongside me, I deviate from thespian art. Melodrama is fine for the thespians amongst us but I am that Horror novelist who relocates to a lakeside cabin and grows a beard of the ages. There may be a slight fly in that ointment, as whatever it is sprawled across my chin right now, is certainly no beard. But if I could then I’d wear it like furry regalia. The quiet life…easy life, that holds the most appeal to Keeper.
So right now I’m cooped up in The Keep, without a colostomy bag to piss in. Same pallid walls, same stench of desperation you think? Negative, I have secured myself within my chamber as this is where the necromancy occurs. I disconnect, it is the only way I can truly focus on losing focus. I don’t want to follow the chosen path when holding the Crimson Quill, indeed I enjoy the ambiguous nature of losing myself, just for a couple of hours.
I adore that my glorious sisters and brothers reading this feel the connection as that is the only pre-requisite when I scribe. Call me touchy-feely and I won’t cry “Gobbledygook”, I’ll embrace the mantle and nuzzle it to within an inch of its life. Even Mr Tickle touches and feels less. Monica Lewinsky however, is on par. If my work resonates then I resonate. Should it fail to reach then I become stunted. Fortunately, I know how to steer things back should they go wayward and always believe that my legacy lies before me, not behind.
So you see, I really am rather fond of The Keep. Some may see it as reclusive and, in many ways, they would be entirely correct. I would encourage those people to take solace in the fact that I always come back. If a handful of neon prose is all I can muster as an account of myself some days then don’t be alarmed or disheartened. There is a bigger picture in my head at all times and the canvas is wide-stretching. The Keep affords its Keeper the time to concoct these vials of honey. It’s my sanctuary, my constant. But while there is breath in my lungs I shall always return from my stay.
Sinning in sanctuary,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill