Status: Finito.
The Gold.
Kashmir.
Leaving the camel behind, her cool sandals coarse fresh over the brick-paved road. It can't follow where she is going -no one can- and she ties it to a stake in the ground, for the goodwill of another, and the well-being of time...
Evening has dully approached, and she cannot begin to believe that she is going through with this, already late as her watch reads just thirty minutes away from the stroke of midnight. Off comes her blackened hood, beat by the bitter hands of the Sun, and she ties its dead weight around her slimmed midsection, the only beautiful, brightest star in the sky keeping her footsteps bound in the right directions...
She will be there. She will, keep the promise.
Pause the night sky. Night is forever cool with the wake of the breeze, and she places up her palm firmly to the ridge…the first crevice is done. The next one she takes, raises the other sore foot from the comfort of the ground, and she dangles, a feminine thread just asking to be scratched off. Without fear, without worry, with all determination, she takes on the towering wall, desperate to make it over to the arms of her depressing lover…
It only gets worse. Crumbles drop down below, and exhaustion hits like a ghostly freight train.
Can she make it? Will she be able to take it? Only time will tell, as she forcibly glances up at her watch, twinkles in the sky inferably sinking to meet her leaking pupils, falling down closer. She becomes lost in the moment, fingers slipping, slipping, slipping from the grip of reality…she still is swimming in the deep, pallid rays of moonlight, and flowing effortlessly among the planets, when one hand tumbles off from the ledge, leaving her five fingers to swell against the gritty brown. A gasp echoes out into the distance, and she dares not look, eyes clenching to the voidness of space…
“I’m coming…”
The trance of the atmosphere, breaks swiftly away, and the woman once again manages to gather the impossible strength to climb even further. Foothold by foothold, inch by grueling inch, she keeps the monk’s wise words buried somewhere into her Ghostly Machine, feeding her aura into the foggy, oxygenless mist. It is harder to breathe, and so the time ticks on, as her watch counts down to the last fifteen minutes…
Five minutes now strike the dusk, as she pulls up with her all…
Four comes with potency and the resistance to fall…
Three are the seconds, dedication enthralled…
And with the last two hands, she conquers over the wall.
Still there is only one that she must see. It is much past the set time now, and hopefully he is waiting patiently for her in solace... The house is of no difference from the time they first escaped here on honeymoon, and it appears to float atop the capacious mountain, welcoming the gracious woman past the beds of beauty in the expanse. She does not walk, she does not limp, she does not hobble; she runs, and runs into its confinements, his silhouette reflecting against the gold drapes.
He is still sitting. She slowly makes way over to her saved seat, grasping his warm hand, but there is something wrong with his eyes. Something is also wrong with the way his body twists...
They glaze over with dyes pure white, and she stares into them as they do not stare back, glaring on motionless through the window, scanning dead while the winds of Kashmir continue to scream and roll along with her as the clock sounds off into the night.
Evening has dully approached, and she cannot begin to believe that she is going through with this, already late as her watch reads just thirty minutes away from the stroke of midnight. Off comes her blackened hood, beat by the bitter hands of the Sun, and she ties its dead weight around her slimmed midsection, the only beautiful, brightest star in the sky keeping her footsteps bound in the right directions...
She will be there. She will, keep the promise.
Pause the night sky. Night is forever cool with the wake of the breeze, and she places up her palm firmly to the ridge…the first crevice is done. The next one she takes, raises the other sore foot from the comfort of the ground, and she dangles, a feminine thread just asking to be scratched off. Without fear, without worry, with all determination, she takes on the towering wall, desperate to make it over to the arms of her depressing lover…
It only gets worse. Crumbles drop down below, and exhaustion hits like a ghostly freight train.
Can she make it? Will she be able to take it? Only time will tell, as she forcibly glances up at her watch, twinkles in the sky inferably sinking to meet her leaking pupils, falling down closer. She becomes lost in the moment, fingers slipping, slipping, slipping from the grip of reality…she still is swimming in the deep, pallid rays of moonlight, and flowing effortlessly among the planets, when one hand tumbles off from the ledge, leaving her five fingers to swell against the gritty brown. A gasp echoes out into the distance, and she dares not look, eyes clenching to the voidness of space…
“I’m coming…”
The trance of the atmosphere, breaks swiftly away, and the woman once again manages to gather the impossible strength to climb even further. Foothold by foothold, inch by grueling inch, she keeps the monk’s wise words buried somewhere into her Ghostly Machine, feeding her aura into the foggy, oxygenless mist. It is harder to breathe, and so the time ticks on, as her watch counts down to the last fifteen minutes…
Five minutes now strike the dusk, as she pulls up with her all…
Four comes with potency and the resistance to fall…
Three are the seconds, dedication enthralled…
And with the last two hands, she conquers over the wall.
Still there is only one that she must see. It is much past the set time now, and hopefully he is waiting patiently for her in solace... The house is of no difference from the time they first escaped here on honeymoon, and it appears to float atop the capacious mountain, welcoming the gracious woman past the beds of beauty in the expanse. She does not walk, she does not limp, she does not hobble; she runs, and runs into its confinements, his silhouette reflecting against the gold drapes.
He is still sitting. She slowly makes way over to her saved seat, grasping his warm hand, but there is something wrong with his eyes. Something is also wrong with the way his body twists...
They glaze over with dyes pure white, and she stares into them as they do not stare back, glaring on motionless through the window, scanning dead while the winds of Kashmir continue to scream and roll along with her as the clock sounds off into the night.