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I hear the rain more than see it on the pane; I feel the un-rhythm crashing through the still air, cleansing away the dust and murk or an oppressive day. I allow the thought to become impulse as I cram my feet ungracefully into boots too big for my legs. I am dressed in shapeless fabric; it hangs from my frame disguising what I do not want to see.
I do not remember descending the stairs. By the time I leave the door I am almost running to catch the storm before it passes. I disregard the slam of the front door. I am too far away, in every sense, to be considerate today. There is only my Self.
I am two streets away and already soaked to the skin, though not yet the bone. They water drags a darker hue from the depths of a T-shirt that does not belong to me. My throat is still raw from my compensation, from my mistakes. The rain will not wash that from me, but it symbolises a beginning. I will be fresh, clean, flawless...or so I believe.
By now every item of clothing I wear is three shades darker and heavier than when I left. My hair is black with water it cannot hold dripping steadily down my face, shoulders and running in rivulets down my spine. My bare arms are vulnerable to the cold, an army or tiny hairs rises to defend my body from the torment I have caused it. I look down, fascinated by what I see. The wrist and forearm before me appear to be thin. I contemplate whether it is the goose-bumps or the droplets of rain covering the skin which make it appear so. Something must be causing this illusion, for I have never seen it before.
I do not shiver. It takes a great deal of effort which I transform into fuel for my poor pounded feet to propel me faster up the increasing incline. Shivering shows susceptibility to the cold, this is perceived as weakness; something I cannot afford to show.
I pass the marker stone. Grass which earlier in the year swayed above my hips now barely brushes my ankles. I cast my eyes briefly upwards and catch diamonds on my lashes, spangling them as though I am crying. I feel anguish but no tears have formed. The sky cries for me, I bask below its sympathetic display. I embrace the pain before I allow it to pass. Today I will not turn from it; I am not afraid.
I crest the hill breathing hard through aching lungs, but quickly control it. A swift sweep of the landscape accommodates my additional assessment of the present individuals; a single car, one van and a couple photographing the city below us. I walk a circle around the monument noticing my path is opposite to sun-wise. They return to the van and leave, relief is short lived as another car pulls up in its place. I gratefully take shelter from their unwanted gaze behind the graffitied and dilapidated building that once was white. Danger signs warn me from approaching but I ignore them. I am not usually fond of urban structures but the black metallic construction before me is strangely welcome in the monochrome of the downpour. I observe with interest a tiny moth taking sanctuary in the dry space beneath one of the girders. Nature uses our creation as we abuse it. The thought trails off there; I am more concerned with the present than the philosophical. I step beneath the mast, twisting my body in an arc between the triangular gaps formed where the iron rods cross each other. The wind is no less bitter, the rain falls through the open space and yet suddenly and surprisingly I feel safer. It is not an enclosed space but it represents a separation from the world outside, I am in a different place now and it is mine for the moment. I walk around the small enclosure breathing easily. I like it here. I remember feeling this way as a child when underneath a desk or below the climbing frame of a forgotten play-park. I think it to be a matter of representational space, the abstract concept of “personal space” being physically embodied by a structure or configuration of objects.
Leaving my safe place with a feeling of peace I venture round the back of the building anti-clockwise. This is my second circuit of the peak in this direction. Crows call from the pine trees level with my position. I study the pillar of black metal that marks the highest point in the city. The works are faded but I read distances and angles, place names I only vaguely recognise and the name of a craftsman I soon forget. The level surface is covered in a layer of clear water. Ignoring the stare of an impolite individual I lever myself up using my arms until I sit atop the most elevated point in the vicinity. (I discount the rooftop and the radio mast, although on November the 5th of last year I did climb higher using these.) My hair has now turned to straggling and saturated threads that I peer through to witness my companions of the summit leave. I lose time as I remain motionless on my pedestal.
Finally I jump down without warning or premeditation. I stride confidently over the grass hoping I do not slip and sprawl, ruining my strong determination to appear proud despite appearance. I take the final spiral deosil, the direction of undoing. The third circle seals the pact. On my decent I brush a pine tree, the spikes only hurt if you caress the wrong way. I see a rowan; by some reckoning it is the tree which corresponds to my birth date. It is a symbol of protection. I take a sprig. I asked permission first.
With no reason in particular I stick the leaves to my forehead; the wetness from the rain binds it there temporarily. I feel power from the acts I have undertaken wakening in me. I will resolve the mess I have created. I return along the roads slightly dazed from exposure and my own mental instability. I am sure that this is not a normal way to behave. The rowan sprig still clutched in my hand I approach the door as though the return journey was instantaneous.
My fingers do not work properly. I use my entire body to turn the key in the lock and coax open the door. I am numb and no longer feel the painful spikes of cold but on entering the second door I begin to shake uncontrollably. Taking the first of my new, sensible decisions I run hot water to the brim of the bath and with difficulty manoeuvre myself out of the borrowed clothes and into the water to thaw. I watch the level rise as my mass displaces the water. Finally I allow myself to relax. It is time I took care of myself, as a whole.
Later, when I can feel again, I dry off and permit myself the comfort of dry clothes. I pin the protective sprig of rowan to the lintel to prevent evil entering. I lock the door just in case.
I do not remember descending the stairs. By the time I leave the door I am almost running to catch the storm before it passes. I disregard the slam of the front door. I am too far away, in every sense, to be considerate today. There is only my Self.
I am two streets away and already soaked to the skin, though not yet the bone. They water drags a darker hue from the depths of a T-shirt that does not belong to me. My throat is still raw from my compensation, from my mistakes. The rain will not wash that from me, but it symbolises a beginning. I will be fresh, clean, flawless...or so I believe.
By now every item of clothing I wear is three shades darker and heavier than when I left. My hair is black with water it cannot hold dripping steadily down my face, shoulders and running in rivulets down my spine. My bare arms are vulnerable to the cold, an army or tiny hairs rises to defend my body from the torment I have caused it. I look down, fascinated by what I see. The wrist and forearm before me appear to be thin. I contemplate whether it is the goose-bumps or the droplets of rain covering the skin which make it appear so. Something must be causing this illusion, for I have never seen it before.
I do not shiver. It takes a great deal of effort which I transform into fuel for my poor pounded feet to propel me faster up the increasing incline. Shivering shows susceptibility to the cold, this is perceived as weakness; something I cannot afford to show.
I pass the marker stone. Grass which earlier in the year swayed above my hips now barely brushes my ankles. I cast my eyes briefly upwards and catch diamonds on my lashes, spangling them as though I am crying. I feel anguish but no tears have formed. The sky cries for me, I bask below its sympathetic display. I embrace the pain before I allow it to pass. Today I will not turn from it; I am not afraid.
I crest the hill breathing hard through aching lungs, but quickly control it. A swift sweep of the landscape accommodates my additional assessment of the present individuals; a single car, one van and a couple photographing the city below us. I walk a circle around the monument noticing my path is opposite to sun-wise. They return to the van and leave, relief is short lived as another car pulls up in its place. I gratefully take shelter from their unwanted gaze behind the graffitied and dilapidated building that once was white. Danger signs warn me from approaching but I ignore them. I am not usually fond of urban structures but the black metallic construction before me is strangely welcome in the monochrome of the downpour. I observe with interest a tiny moth taking sanctuary in the dry space beneath one of the girders. Nature uses our creation as we abuse it. The thought trails off there; I am more concerned with the present than the philosophical. I step beneath the mast, twisting my body in an arc between the triangular gaps formed where the iron rods cross each other. The wind is no less bitter, the rain falls through the open space and yet suddenly and surprisingly I feel safer. It is not an enclosed space but it represents a separation from the world outside, I am in a different place now and it is mine for the moment. I walk around the small enclosure breathing easily. I like it here. I remember feeling this way as a child when underneath a desk or below the climbing frame of a forgotten play-park. I think it to be a matter of representational space, the abstract concept of “personal space” being physically embodied by a structure or configuration of objects.
Leaving my safe place with a feeling of peace I venture round the back of the building anti-clockwise. This is my second circuit of the peak in this direction. Crows call from the pine trees level with my position. I study the pillar of black metal that marks the highest point in the city. The works are faded but I read distances and angles, place names I only vaguely recognise and the name of a craftsman I soon forget. The level surface is covered in a layer of clear water. Ignoring the stare of an impolite individual I lever myself up using my arms until I sit atop the most elevated point in the vicinity. (I discount the rooftop and the radio mast, although on November the 5th of last year I did climb higher using these.) My hair has now turned to straggling and saturated threads that I peer through to witness my companions of the summit leave. I lose time as I remain motionless on my pedestal.
Finally I jump down without warning or premeditation. I stride confidently over the grass hoping I do not slip and sprawl, ruining my strong determination to appear proud despite appearance. I take the final spiral deosil, the direction of undoing. The third circle seals the pact. On my decent I brush a pine tree, the spikes only hurt if you caress the wrong way. I see a rowan; by some reckoning it is the tree which corresponds to my birth date. It is a symbol of protection. I take a sprig. I asked permission first.
With no reason in particular I stick the leaves to my forehead; the wetness from the rain binds it there temporarily. I feel power from the acts I have undertaken wakening in me. I will resolve the mess I have created. I return along the roads slightly dazed from exposure and my own mental instability. I am sure that this is not a normal way to behave. The rowan sprig still clutched in my hand I approach the door as though the return journey was instantaneous.
My fingers do not work properly. I use my entire body to turn the key in the lock and coax open the door. I am numb and no longer feel the painful spikes of cold but on entering the second door I begin to shake uncontrollably. Taking the first of my new, sensible decisions I run hot water to the brim of the bath and with difficulty manoeuvre myself out of the borrowed clothes and into the water to thaw. I watch the level rise as my mass displaces the water. Finally I allow myself to relax. It is time I took care of myself, as a whole.
Later, when I can feel again, I dry off and permit myself the comfort of dry clothes. I pin the protective sprig of rowan to the lintel to prevent evil entering. I lock the door just in case.
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Italics
There it is again. That rose in the garden. It pierces itself through the ground in the dead of winter. In the beginning it seemed a sweet pale pink. I loved the way it loved me. Especially after I watered and fed it, and fed it and fed it--- And gave my full attention. But for some reason now it comes up a dark magenta. A color and smell so vicious my eyes water and I feel sick to my stomach. And those thorns kill, kill, kill. A continual annoyance. I'm afraid to go near it even though it throws me a bone once in awhile. Tip toeing around the garden is no protection. It pleasures itself stabbing its way into my side. It’s the cattiest little flower. Deliberate and hurtful. What used to be pretty to me is now ugly. Even the hornets don’t like it. That’s saying something. ©LRO 2021
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I skated out on to the thinned out ice between cowardice and polite offense too difficult to face of cobblestone that led the path of commoner sense I was led to ask history never allows a follow up question you told me of a gentle night sunflowers and starry night all that was true was all that was right earth is cold, and the winds stood still illusion is ego, the favorite chill stood back then and is standing still. It is of words a mortal curse that fans that flame from bad to worst horse hooves call before the hearse tell me I am of doom and gloom and providence has filled the room I caught the game too late...... ice cracks deep.
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An account of a walk I took on a particularly bad day. It was only after waking up the next morning unable to breathe through my nose and coughing up nasty gunk that I realised it may not have been the best idea to act upon.
Advanced Critique requested. Thank you.
Advanced Critique requested. Thank you.
© 2009 - 2024 VioletRaven
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