Tuesday, 28 September 2010
It started with a yawn. He looked around as if there was something to look at, knowing full well that nothing had changed since he last yawned and looked around. When you first feel your way into a cavern of bliss, you still get certain feelings of cautiousness and concern. It wasn't as if he had entered into the bowels of heaven, but it was definitely more than just your average burlesque-themed psychedelic mansion. Now was the time to make a real adjustment, or had he missed the chance to captivate others with his chirpy snarl, and vivacious drool? Could you even describe his (or anyone else's) drool as vivacious? Knowing there was the possibility of feeling more than numb, he rose from the shackles of cold wooden floorboards, having dismissed a position of comfort on either a sofa or a bed. Next time might be different, but it was a sense of deprecation, not just for himself, that thrust his physical being down low, onto hardness. With a stretch of the arms and a crack of the spine, he leapt out of himself and down the hallway, ignoring his reflection in the numerous mirrors around, not knowing if he even had a reflection to make eye contact with. He didn't think so, but it wasn't worth the risk. Who was he any more, who was he to begin with? He remembered to forget. Every day was his adventure; no shackles, no restraints, no long term connections to turn him into a 'percieved' person. This environment he had made for himself, the purposeful loss of a portfolio of time, was to him pure freedom, and the result of a past forgotten for good reason. Destiny doesn't exist when you've not been heading in any particular direction. How can his path be preconcieved if there's nothing built behind him? Like a small feather in a rampant tornado, he just keeps spinning and darting and floating and flying. Forgetting what was and not knowing what will be, he leaves this place behind, then it is nothing to him. Not even a memory. The tales he could tell, the descriptions he could give, the advice he could offer and the yarn he could weave, all just a log on a fire.