Now for something completely different, stream of conscious writing out in the backyard.
The air around me is mellow and warm. It threatens to erupt in throat-constructing thickness, tempting the night sky with heavy fog that dulls the light-pollution tinted midnight blue sky. The horizon is an almost sickly puce, darkening as it reaches higher to the heavens. I face a starless sky, one which lets the moon stand in the majesty of its halo. The dark patches on the moon’s surface invite the curious to its long abandoned shores, promising an exhilaration combination of adventure and weightlessness. But this gravity-strong planet refuses to give me up that easily, holding on even as I slowly erode its defenses, use up its resources.
The backyard seems to protest my presence. The grass is stiff, refusing to even humor me with a semblance of comfort. It tells me that no amount of watering will soften its razor tips. It doesn’t collect any morning dew. The patches of gold, a testament to the scorching sun, reveals its distaste for postcard perfection. Underneath the stiffness, though, it yields. I hear a yearning for colorful companions to brighten its borders, a flutter of soft wings to delve into its surface, a warm body to make it feel needed.
I feel stiff, though I loath being so. My muscles protest my movements, my feeble attempts to make something of my days. I yearn to be useful, to impart some of my skills, few as they may be, to those surrounding me. Instead, I sit still, unable to even to participate in the flurry of activity that surrounds me. My brightness is fading. They scuttle around me, never staying long enough to make an impact, to scrape deeper. I look up at the moon with the breathing, dying figure beneath me, and feel as unused, as pointless as it must feel. I long to join the wind, to flutter unconcernedly around. To shift and change subtly. To swivel and swirl, an invisible torrent, soaring through wide open windows that coax me in, through rushes of breathe that stir the night air. I want to blow softly through long hair, cause goose bumps to rise on small arms, and dance with loose petals and fallen leaves.
I want to blow life into this decrepit patch of land.
The air around me is mellow and warm. It threatens to erupt in throat-constructing thickness, tempting the night sky with heavy fog that dulls the light-pollution tinted midnight blue sky. The horizon is an almost sickly puce, darkening as it reaches higher to the heavens. I face a starless sky, one which lets the moon stand in the majesty of its halo. The dark patches on the moon’s surface invite the curious to its long abandoned shores, promising an exhilaration combination of adventure and weightlessness. But this gravity-strong planet refuses to give me up that easily, holding on even as I slowly erode its defenses, use up its resources.
The backyard seems to protest my presence. The grass is stiff, refusing to even humor me with a semblance of comfort. It tells me that no amount of watering will soften its razor tips. It doesn’t collect any morning dew. The patches of gold, a testament to the scorching sun, reveals its distaste for postcard perfection. Underneath the stiffness, though, it yields. I hear a yearning for colorful companions to brighten its borders, a flutter of soft wings to delve into its surface, a warm body to make it feel needed.
I am an intruder on its silent distaste, I am not understanding like the soft scuttling beetles, that barely scrape its tips. I am a semi-permanent presence, bent on changing its ideals. I too want companionship. I cannot find it in the graying sky, or the unreachable moon. Even the air passes by me, uncaring. It doesn’t provide heat, or moisture. It is inconsequential. But I can feel the grass beneath me, even as it refuses to soften for me. I can examine the not-so-subtle bright green that changes into yellow. I can witness the glittering beetle weave through the tangle of grass to escape my threatening figure. I can, if only vaguely, understand its loneliness.
I feel stiff, though I loath being so. My muscles protest my movements, my feeble attempts to make something of my days. I yearn to be useful, to impart some of my skills, few as they may be, to those surrounding me. Instead, I sit still, unable to even to participate in the flurry of activity that surrounds me. My brightness is fading. They scuttle around me, never staying long enough to make an impact, to scrape deeper. I look up at the moon with the breathing, dying figure beneath me, and feel as unused, as pointless as it must feel. I long to join the wind, to flutter unconcernedly around. To shift and change subtly. To swivel and swirl, an invisible torrent, soaring through wide open windows that coax me in, through rushes of breathe that stir the night air. I want to blow softly through long hair, cause goose bumps to rise on small arms, and dance with loose petals and fallen leaves.
I want to blow life into this decrepit patch of land.
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