This is their heart. If one can see, it is not 'all there'.
A bit grey and faded, like, does it really exist?
They take good things from it,
like bright orbs of colour.
They also take bad things, scary things,
like shadow creatures with crazy eyes.
At times, it doesn't feel totally 'human',
but just a mere reflection of a cracked world.
They know that it's a bit scary,
But it's their heart
And they wouldn't trade it for anything.
This is the type of stuff they write. It's not really a poem, not really a story, just words, scooped from the void bordering their coastal town and strung up together from the native fog, because it's little towns like that which seem to like some mystery.
But that's not even their birth place. They were born from another kind of void. A void so white, it was blinding. But even then, their earliest memory of that place was not of the North's snow and blizzards, but of four, single-filed caribou that walked through it from a distant cliff.
They were given the name of an ancient 1. Now and again, they’ll ponder if they are ‘United as One’ or ‘One Alone’. It certainly follows them: They are a 1% of gender, romance, and sexuality, monotone – and some possible monomania.
But nothing has been confirmed yet.
What they see, with their fluctuating vision, is monochromes and greys. Such a narrow mind, but they learned to forge a mirror. A mirror to flip and see other perspectives on the spectrum. They can take the colours of humanitie’s energies, making sure to write them all down so they won’t fade.
But that mirror not just reflects the light of others, it reflects themselves, and they must face the shadows that stare back at them.
Sometimes, they’re an idiot and they stare a little too long. The shadows will ssslither and whisssper and they’re an idiot who lissstensss. Is a silver tongue worth it’s consequences? Is silence just gold?
Oh well. So one mask says one thing and another says something else. They’ll just have to write it all down. Make sure to pace, too – how else can they keep up with their thoughts if they don’t walk with them? They like walks, they themself and all of them.
‘It gives exercise.’ One says. ‘We need to keep healthy.’
‘It gives us alone time and some fresh air.’ Offers another.
‘It gives the couch a break from our ass!’ Cackles one more.
But they should get back to the surface. Even they can only hold their breath for so long until they swim up for air.
They’re not really noticed and they’re usually fine with that. They’re just another human on the street, putting one foot in front of the other. They’ll wear something faded or monochromatic, save for one bright accessory. Depending on the time of day – or a good game – they’ll show the Persona, the Shadow, or even the Self. They’re not ‘nice’ but they have moments of kindness. ‘Good One’ and ‘Bad One’ hold as much water to them as ‘weird’ and ‘normal’. They want to reflect just how much of a horror those concepts are, one of their writing goals. Relationships are shaky from past chains, but the use of singular ‘They’ is a passcode on who to trust. They’ll write something awesome, then blame it on their mind. They'll even let 'You' be in the adventure!
They’ll admit, they’re have cracks, but they’re not broken. Never again.
They might disappear, but they’ll never cease to exist.
They’ve been called saner than a Saint and then madder than a Hatter.
Whenever they’re asked to be described, the best description people can give is their name.
Who are they?
They’ll say
Monos D.O.A
Now, if they may be excused, they have a book to publish.
ns 172.69.6.215da2
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