The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of The Skeleton Crew (1|1)

(№1.1)

People nowadays digress and dislodge of it, so persistent, so caring to not believe, to strive unfazed and confirm the false-proven, turmoiling calm safety of delicious yet fatal denial. Coaxed and bewitched, they drink and bathe in it every single day of their miserable life, a great curative beverage to let fantasy be an affair frowned heavenly upon, an affair of only poets and man-children, fiction a matter you might enjoy occasional for needed servings per day to do yet another thing considered hale-forthbringing: Escaping reality. The shadows be mere shadows, and within the lurking, ancient, angsty powers figmented, fitted presumptuous vanity of your mind to conceal the anxious, consistent sentiment of fear, risen in the dark, nurtured by obscurity and homed also, preferably to rather vacate from this labile territory haunted by dimly silhouettes straying just beyond the flickering light cone of the torches.

The problem only arises and ascertains a finger where reality and supposed fiction rally and fight wars, the transitional points, grey and horribly simmering, disputing, where you couldn't assign, categorise, separate one from the other, mended and cleaved, terribly amiably interwoven, linked where lie and truth intersect in an overlap so confusing, deeply troubling even those present couldn't discern myth from utmost, happened, fixed substantiality. That's where bright minds delve in with the tools of philosophy and most humans despair and succumb in the end to their incapability of discerning the most evidently needed; The truth in itself.

Consumed by clearly-sectioned verity taught and oppressed in youth, written and translated into their every fibre to fear the unexplained, subtract yourself from danger with quivering limbs and absolute mortal agony, inseperate from their nature alike the togetherness of trueness and deceit, compounded at least somewhat occasionally along the path.       

The rest of the lot, untouched and out of contact with the doubting metropoles, the hot unexplained that do oppose a challenge to dissolve, are an entirely different type of beast to tackle.

For no matter how strong you try to convince them – to see the truth through the adulty mist that concocted over time all alone and was only further vindicated by literature and academical wrongness, clang now to the grown-ups firmly like a second skin, decelerating and working almost like a soothing sedative (fear and curiosity are really like opposite poles, for indifference was far more effective than fear, for out of fright, anger and hatred might be the next children to be produced) - in retrospect, you would never succeed. Grey the thing they wanted to ignore, deny, grey they turned out to be themselves very ironically. The compendium of how to thread their lives sufficed and fomented.

Neither did they care or even mused in the possibility of "things" being out there in the wild, things far beyond human imagination and way older than legends and facile tales, that there was in fact something else, silently judging and thriving without human influences.

Yet back in the old days, the times of ancient Empires and fair courts of just kings and soft queens, the days of malicious courts led by horrible kings and vicious queens, when paper made of papyrus or animal skin, even earlier be it little squares cut out of stone - it used to be different. For unnormal, disgusting, forbidden behaviour, nature itself seemed to curse villages and long-lost-forgotten towns with spuming Sea, angered Sky and faltering Earth, demise and doom a constant variable expected deeply and anxious alike, mankind was determined to explain it in all its basic components, panelling the elements from action to reaction, from cause to consequence, much like the fraudulent white light of the sun is revealed to be in reality a conglomeration of all the seven rainbow colours existing, camouflaging in unison as one, being far greater and stronger jointly than apart. They did so with every fibre intent of creating the finest stories of terror and horror, but wholesomity and merit thereunto with every bit of great story-telling dexterity and tale-crafting aptitude they could muster. And really did they have to turn their minds upside down for a great fable, for unluck and misery truly are prone to strike periodically and never be far atwain.