Don't stop searching

The sun was set and the air was a mixture of mildly heavy winds and a wet sticky heat. Within the small suburbs of Illinois, in a modest home that lay in between an interstate junction and a quiet schoolyard. an imagination began to grow and come into itself. Transforming and learning from the pages of comic books, through wise words that were handed down from the roots of its heritage and with a hope in which to become like the stars themselves. The imagination would learn and listen to many things with the fingers of time wrapped tightly around its own. These many things would consist of learning how to trust a dear friend, how to work hard, to relax justly, to be self assured, and to deal with the many harsh expressions of age. Most of all though the greatest of the lessons learned was that of love. It favored and admired its presence (in all forms) and would weep at its passing. it grew to become fiercely protective of its unexplained touch. Time would squeeze the hand of the imagination tighter and tighter with each passing day and soon it grew fully formed and complete. Then one day, the imagination made a choice of infinite possibilities and dimensions. It decided to fight for the idea and longevity  of love so that all could experience what it had over the years (without caring for what the price to pay was or what the obligations to come were) You see, many killers and sinister alike wished to hold the title as the conqueror of love and to reshape life itself to their own self righteous conceptions. Young, passionate, and strong, the imagination would contest them all with a will that would best befit delusion. Its eyes became known widely as fury, a fury that was as untamable as fire itself. Each foe that would fall away from the imagination (as many as there were) Would leave a piece of themselves behind with a stain that would become more and more prominent. Perhaps it was a strategy to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who would attempt to test its might, but then perhaps it was unintentional, but whatever the aims were, the blood stains had become much of the imaginations essence. This frightened the love, so much so that it could no longer look upon the face of its own. Separation had left the two morose as a silent explanation. "Perhaps in solace, we may one day again speak with lips of whispers," said the two with coldened perpetuation. The imagination, who had wished for nothing else in its existence held on, even as its own battles grew stronger and more voracious. These wars began to break hard and indefinitely. Each year was to hold out hope, each second, each passing glance, and every thought. Never to again watch the unexplained steps walk towards their own fading arms. A day arose and the imagination was given an ally with strength like that of its own forming past. It was still young, and still full of much passion. It admired the imagination in the way that the love would and it wished to take its place alongside its newfound ally. The imagination however would see the darkness within its friend throughout each of their struggles ( as it was the same stain that now covered its own self) this discouraged the imagination and it would refuse to allow the young spirit to take loves place. This notion drove the spirit towards a bitter anger for love and the imagination alike. It vowed to one day rise above them both. The spirit; in its blindness, foolishly beckoned the very own forces that it itself was fighting to rid the world of. It sought out an old and insidious spell; one that would never allow the spirit to leave the earth. The imagination; unaware of this ritual, continued to solder on with the spirit. The two; side by side, waged forth with a trust that was tainted by a lurking eye. Night passed over them as a blanket of complacency. The imagination lie still in a deep sleep. In a single instance, a chance was given to the young spirit to defeat the imagination. As the spirit approached; turning its back upon its once companion, it was given a new face. A spite, known as the breath of clouds. The sleeping imaginations own breath was pulled from itself, leaving it defenseless for the spite to attack unmercifully and relentlessly. The spite struck it down, and the imagination was defeated. Broken and left for dead, a river of grief overcame the fallen so immensely that it brought forth a mighty storm which tore the forms of the imagination and spirit apart. Their pieces were pulled into the seas, and were buried deep within the earth. The tow; as fragments of themselves, now forever wait. The imagination, never questioning the hope that love would one day return to it. The love had heard of the imaginations passing and so began to search for it inside each storm that would arise with rampant and wild intent. Fiercely and unfathomably it sought the imagination out without an outcome in sight. Can you hear it howl in your heart and chill your skin. Stomachs plummet and hair stand at an attention so direct that they appear to be pulling away from the skin that they are attached to. Palms produce sweat and each voice become hoarse and toneless. Can you feel it pull the very ground from your feet or hold you in place for a lifetime. Can you even imagine it ? I could, many years ago in that neighborhood in Illinois. With all those comic books that we would stay up on weekend nights reading. in that school we would meet each morning at. On that road we learned to drive on. At that interstate we would joke about heading west on, to move on forwards towards better things. You see, that imagination belonged to my best friend, my lover and one summer night with wind gently whipping at us and the warm air stuck in its place. she did drive on down that road towards an idea worth leaving for. Towards an idea worth fighting for. We made a simple silent promise that night; a whisper, as it were to meet again. I haven't seen her since, but I don't think that I'll ever be able to stop searching.