Glacial Whisper
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The paddle sank once again into the green waters of the eternal river. We heard an aquatic murmur with no signs of life around the canoe. Had we been further away, we would have heard nothing, unless clouds whistle as they float.
Θ's soul was in absolute peace. He looked straight ahead, determined, splitting the white mist that covered the perhaps non-existent banks of the river, which carried its current without strength, that has no visible rocks, and limits itself to a helpless waving letting us know of its river status only because it leads somewhere…
In higher regions the fog got mixed with an even clearer steam, which sometimes condensed into rain, useless for any apparent purpose. Hesitant drops fell aimlessly without violence. Vertically. Without acknowledging the wind. Just like bodies falling from the ravines. Soaking what was wet.
And then how great it felt on his insides to breathe that icy air, how comforting to feel it seeping through his bones as if it squeezed them. Neutralizing the soreness and bringing him to that painless world which we all dream and is different for everyone. A world of such beauty that escaping was not an option, isolation wasn’t necessary, and departing would offer no appeal.
And when the night fell, he drifted along. He tried to see the dark sky but the steam blocked his view and then his eyelids did likewise with his conscience. And it did not rain that night. Neither did dreams fell upon him. Dull and tame quietness. Nebulous, cloudy peace.
Taking a course which he could only hope wasn’t opposite to yesterday’s, the dawn revived him. As all dawns revived him. Starting on that fateful morning when he separated from the world known to all, where people live in an appalling lethargy that only becomes more poignant the more one observes it.
He built his own canoe and bought a second hand paddle and without needing more, he left making sure not to look back, and it was fortunate that he didn’t, for a desolate sight awaited him. Nobody looked up front for him.
And he acted with a never indifferent conviction. Despite having pushed them all aside on his own decision, even the honest and worthy, he felt a deep stab at having to give up on himself and get away from everything. He felt exiled, it could not be said that he hadn’t tried or that he did this on pure will.
Not everybody carries the same blueprints.
Θ's soul was in absolute peace. He looked straight ahead, determined, splitting the white mist that covered the perhaps non-existent banks of the river, which carried its current without strength, that has no visible rocks, and limits itself to a helpless waving letting us know of its river status only because it leads somewhere…
In higher regions the fog got mixed with an even clearer steam, which sometimes condensed into rain, useless for any apparent purpose. Hesitant drops fell aimlessly without violence. Vertically. Without acknowledging the wind. Just like bodies falling from the ravines. Soaking what was wet.
And then how great it felt on his insides to breathe that icy air, how comforting to feel it seeping through his bones as if it squeezed them. Neutralizing the soreness and bringing him to that painless world which we all dream and is different for everyone. A world of such beauty that escaping was not an option, isolation wasn’t necessary, and departing would offer no appeal.
And when the night fell, he drifted along. He tried to see the dark sky but the steam blocked his view and then his eyelids did likewise with his conscience. And it did not rain that night. Neither did dreams fell upon him. Dull and tame quietness. Nebulous, cloudy peace.
Taking a course which he could only hope wasn’t opposite to yesterday’s, the dawn revived him. As all dawns revived him. Starting on that fateful morning when he separated from the world known to all, where people live in an appalling lethargy that only becomes more poignant the more one observes it.
He built his own canoe and bought a second hand paddle and without needing more, he left making sure not to look back, and it was fortunate that he didn’t, for a desolate sight awaited him. Nobody looked up front for him.
And he acted with a never indifferent conviction. Despite having pushed them all aside on his own decision, even the honest and worthy, he felt a deep stab at having to give up on himself and get away from everything. He felt exiled, it could not be said that he hadn’t tried or that he did this on pure will.
Not everybody carries the same blueprints.