rtharagan
11-01-2011, 05:38 AM
My legs labor walking downhill, their confused gait a result of some excess thought and uncertainty. My mind, an unfixable mess of long tangents and wasted potential, can't pull itself untangled for long enough to connect my life with the girls I notice bobbing down the hill in front of me. I am timid, too timid to want them, too worried to invest anything, even a minute (at a risk of what?), in my pursuit of them. To remove my mind even further from the cold night, I choose to walk around them. I increase my pace and pass them, a pitiful, evasive maneuver. A recurring motif in my mind's novel is brought present: "You have everything, but you hurt yourself. Thirsty, surrounded by fast, clear streams, and able to swim, you don't drink."
On the board, the pieces are set. They glisten in the dying light: rooks, queens, kings, bishops; polished, almost oily; their ready faces grow anxious. As a soft hand comes into view excitement brews in their maple grains. They grow tense and seem to quiver as the lamp is low. A rook's wrinkly face intensifies, and light burns in its eyes. The pale phalanges close around. Waiting for the caress that stands for everything in youth, the adventure, the game, the passion, the hope, the risk, and fire, its eyes close in prayer, pleading for the critical touch, for the touch marks the beginning from which there is no turning back. Every fibre in its figure is strained; its ear could scratch a diamond. It waits, and it waits, and it waits, and it waits even more. Its face is intense but is growing weary once again. The fire in its eyes dim just noticeably; was it always only a reflection? Still it waits, and waits, and waits again. The world starts making sense to it, blurry figures emerging in its view: characters, other beings, other challenges, other dreams. Muscles in its neck begin to shake. Its eyes, always fierce but always fixed, move for the first time, receiving knowledge from more directions than one. New views inspire anew. Its chest bellows uncontrollably. Standing in the middle of a prairie, it sees the orange sun melt into white and violet mountain in the west. Grey boulders turn blue, gold grass red. Electricity is in the air! It can feel the pull of Jupiter. Its hooves, without ever being raised, pound the dirt. The grass is soft and strong and breathes in endlessly from the new night sky. Its energy is beautiful and its distance infinite. The journey is endless, it thinks: I need to start now! Its chest is a fire, its heart the core. Start now! Touch me! TOUCH me!
It stomps, and the dirt kicked up cools its thighs. Its hooves are dark, then its ankles, then its belly. It stomps again, and again, no longer containing its energy. Long since any grass remained under its hooves, it digs holes. Digging deeper, the earth is cold. Its back is dark. Anger replaces anticipation. It yells and pleads. Hot steam flows visibly from its nostrils as it lifts its head. Its neck is dark. A star is born over the mountains as the drop of gold falls in the west. And then its eyes are dark.
On the board, the pieces are set. They glisten in the dying light: rooks, queens, kings, bishops; polished, almost oily; their ready faces grow anxious. As a soft hand comes into view excitement brews in their maple grains. They grow tense and seem to quiver as the lamp is low. A rook's wrinkly face intensifies, and light burns in its eyes. The pale phalanges close around. Waiting for the caress that stands for everything in youth, the adventure, the game, the passion, the hope, the risk, and fire, its eyes close in prayer, pleading for the critical touch, for the touch marks the beginning from which there is no turning back. Every fibre in its figure is strained; its ear could scratch a diamond. It waits, and it waits, and it waits, and it waits even more. Its face is intense but is growing weary once again. The fire in its eyes dim just noticeably; was it always only a reflection? Still it waits, and waits, and waits again. The world starts making sense to it, blurry figures emerging in its view: characters, other beings, other challenges, other dreams. Muscles in its neck begin to shake. Its eyes, always fierce but always fixed, move for the first time, receiving knowledge from more directions than one. New views inspire anew. Its chest bellows uncontrollably. Standing in the middle of a prairie, it sees the orange sun melt into white and violet mountain in the west. Grey boulders turn blue, gold grass red. Electricity is in the air! It can feel the pull of Jupiter. Its hooves, without ever being raised, pound the dirt. The grass is soft and strong and breathes in endlessly from the new night sky. Its energy is beautiful and its distance infinite. The journey is endless, it thinks: I need to start now! Its chest is a fire, its heart the core. Start now! Touch me! TOUCH me!
It stomps, and the dirt kicked up cools its thighs. Its hooves are dark, then its ankles, then its belly. It stomps again, and again, no longer containing its energy. Long since any grass remained under its hooves, it digs holes. Digging deeper, the earth is cold. Its back is dark. Anger replaces anticipation. It yells and pleads. Hot steam flows visibly from its nostrils as it lifts its head. Its neck is dark. A star is born over the mountains as the drop of gold falls in the west. And then its eyes are dark.