He had been told to seek out the forge. The room that contains the place where he can be reshaped, reforged, made into something new. He knew of course, that this room was not merely physical, but a place of the inner landscapes, one which could give him a strength to alter himself, the privilege of self-responsibility.

And so here he is, laying in the grass near the lake, his shoulders and head illuminated by the moonlight, the rest of him hidden in the shadows of the tree he lays under. There is a motion in the night around him. The breeze is cool and alternates between gusting, stillness, and gentle teasing whispers of breath. His journal is on the ground beside his head. He had been writing in it, but the whispers in his mind taught him that it was not the proper task for the moment.

Drowsy eyes close for a moment as he feels the cool earth embracing his body. He almost purrs into it, letting the sense of nature take him to a place of peace. He realizes that he could rest here. He could easily allow himself to sleep. Sheepishly he has a vision of being awoken by a passerby or law enforcement officer, making sure he wasn’t dead. He smiles at this and lets his mind sink deep inside himself.

The wind picks up and blows hair across his face, fluttering his eyelashes. The moon has created a halo for herself, a ring of silvery light that dominates the eastern sky. The ring, filled with the inky blue of the night sky, and the wispy gray-white of moonlit clouds, hovers above him, whispering of the circle, and telling him that all is well and safe.  He listens for a moment to the crickets chirping in the trees, and the night-birds alive. The lake laps against the concrete wall and the huge cubes of concrete dumped into it.

He sees the spiral stair-case in his mind. A stone path, enclosed before him, and he climbs it, reaching the door to the room of doorways. The place inside him that contains paths to each part of himself. He has not charted this room, at least not yet. He has wanted too, meant too, repeatedly begun too; but there is always other business he must attend to.

Fondly he caresses one of the arch-shaped bookcases, letting his fingers trail along the engraving in the keystone of the arch, touching the backs of the books that line the shelves. This arch could be a portal if he willed it. This portal takes him to his inner wilderness. He passes it by.

Laying on the floor he runs his fingers along the warmth of the hardwood there, shining with candlelight and moonlight which streams down through the glass ceiling. He looks around, letting himself find the forge, wherever it may be. The fireplace. Of course. He moves to the end of the room and lets the fire in the fireplace come to life. The new light casts shadows behind him, demons of himself dancing along the shelves and tables, slipping in and out of doors both known and mysterious.

He smiles and steps through the flames of the fireplace, finding himself in a circular room made of stone. The room is closed, and has one door, which is closed as well. There is a coal-pit on a pedestal in the center, and a bellows. There are four anvils spread around the pedestal, and the tools of a blacksmiths trade adorn the walls around him. He gazes around, knowing the purpose of these tools, understanding them, but knowing he does not have the skill to work with them. How can he use this place to remake himself if he does not have the knowledge?

The room is in disrepair, the coals cool, and the tools covered in a thick dust. He begins to clean, removing three of the anvils, for he needs only the one. As he does he is confronted with the challenges that lie ahead of him. The forge-god he honors is present here, he can feel him everywhere, in the walls, in the cold ashes of the coal-pit. The mallets and hammers, the tongs all seem to resonate with his very presence. This is a holy place, a place that is his to understand.

He stops, letting his hands linger upon the anvil. This does not need to be a blacksmiths room, he understands. His fingers trail around the tip of the anvil, curling under it. Were I to create, to forge the world, what would be my tools? He asks himself. The answer is clear. Words.

No sooner has he thought it, then he follows the thought with his knowledge, his will, and the forge is transformed into a studio. The walls part to create windows, windows which will let him see the landscape of his lives, and whatever visions he seeks. The anvil becomes a desk, its shape pressing against one of the walls, with a small cabinet above it. A row of hardbound books of every shape and size set in the cabinet. He knows that these are himself. Carefully, he closes the doors of the cabinet on all the volumes but the one which represents this life, this time.

He will attend to the others in their time, as he needs, as he is able. But this volume, the volume he lives now, is where his attention is drawn. There is a pot of ink upon the desk, a rag, and a pair of simple speedball pens.  He smiles and strokes the smooth surface of the desk, knowing there is a chair behind him but not needing it now.

The study/forge bears resemblance to his real desk, the one sitting back in the study of the apartment. It too is laid out as he wishes, everything made ready for him to write, to work his will upon the pages before him. He caresses the book that is himself, and acknowledges that he can not write within it now. To etch words in this volume is to change the very nature of his life, and those words must be hewn with all his skill.

Words are his to guide, to tease and pressure into their structure, to create with, and he knows that they will obey him. But he knows also that their obedience can be cruel, can be cold, and can betray him. As with all power, there is respect that must be given, dues that must be paid, and understanding which must be earned. Before his pen strikes these pages, he must know what it is he shall write there, and for that, he must take time.

He shelves the volume carefully and sends his thanks and prayers to his God. The forge resonates with his presence now, and his hammer becomes his pen. To create, he needs only craft his words with the care the blacksmith hammers his metal. There is only creation, the medium is illusory, and naught but the carrier upon which art and life are brought.