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Monday, July 22, 2013

The Quill

The most lonely popular man in the world sits beneath the ruble rocks and the cracked dirt, writing for the unknown faces that watch and speak to him from somewhere afar.  He pictures their land green and rolling, yellow from the flowers, and blue from the sky above.  His dirty water stirs in circles from the inside of its plastic domain.  Small sips while typing gives his fingers just enough juice to continue the journey he sees in his mind.  A rhythmic adventure, mostly filled with emptiness from those he has not seen in years, those that have left him in the down deep, where the light only seeps through the small snake holes that surround his dirt palace, a dirt palace he calls home..... holes that are too small for an escape route.  Face full of dirt, mind clean as a whistle, he sails on paths that move with the clouds above, fast like a smile, and long like his stay below.  His heels tap the dirt below, as his toes stay dug into the dry dirt.  A drum set for writing, a musical escape to explore new worlds above.  His eyes glaze over as the feather moves frantically under his chin.  His sniper rifle up against the dirt wall, broken, and never used.  A gun that has no chance to fire, but awaits pertinently when duty is called upon.  The gun is like the writer, broken but steady, filled with life in a lifeless hole.  Dreams above march as nightmares below dwell.

A long stare at the dirt ceiling above pierces the dirt like a nail gun to wood, jump starting his mind to write!  Jump starting his mind to think outside of his thoughts.  To fight against the norm of pacing amongst his caged limits reality left him with.  To write is to see beyond your limits, to feel what you have never felt, to witness a moment you have never seen, and to feel the impact of something that has never impacted you before.  The dirt lob of sweat stung his right eye, as his left hand unconsciously wipes away the frantic run for freedom his legs truly believe they are on.

"Run, young lad!"  A character possibly made up, or possibly a real live human that he somehow remembered as a very young boy appeared under his feather, walking a horse by a lonely tree. Old man, with a young walk and tall legs yells from afar.  "Run for your life!"  The wise looking man yells again as the dirt from the walls that slowly fall like ash after a burning, right to left, lower and lower the pieces of his future lay quietly onto his leather paper like a bedtime story before bed.  The smell of homesick burning as the sting from his lower gut snakes up his neck and into his brain.  His hands react to his hair, sliding his long nailed fingers throughout the forest of dirt, dreads and grease. The taste of his once family leaves his gums white and bloody, stained and in doubt.  His memories muddy while his parents wait in heaven as he awaits in hell, for the day this dirt cage falls upon him, ending what he now knows as life itself.  His feet now digging into the ground below his small ant hill of a table, digging like a horse showing its strength before raising its black polished head for the cameras to see and the rich to ahh over.  Golden black, and ready to hoof the next mother fucker who yanks him down from his high and mighty pose.  The rope around the neck of the beast only makes the beast's teeth grow long and sharp, hungry for blood, and dangerous beyond belief.  Black from a dark soul, with eyes of white that see beyond the horse's reality.  Hope the horse sees, if only the horse could write, he would write words of hope, pastures of green...... he would nay words of freedom.

Freedom the man in the dirt farm felt, as his writing became more intense, finding its way through the leather and into the dirt behind.  Eyes red from a lack of blinking, and feet half way deep in dirt from digging.  If only this young man could write himself out from this rock, this prison blocking his thoughts.....he could set himself free forever.  His eyes squinted low and sharp, focusing on the world he saw in his head, the world his hand was painting for him.  He saw the horse and the old man once again, this time further down the path he was running on.  A path that has signs that read unknown.  Signs that read turn around! But around the turn he went, faster and faster as the horse that once laid under the lonely tree by the old man now up and running fast like the wind, smooth like the grass, and blacker than the end of the young man's pin.  The horse escaped the rope attached to the race.  Free from the people who once kept him on the dirt circle. The young dirt man writing remembered horses in his past life, and pictured the most elegant and beautiful horse he could think of.  This was the horse running beside him.  How he was keeping up with the horse he didn't know, for knowing didn't hold any water at this time of escape.  The faster he wrote, the faster they both ran.  The harder he wrote the older he became.  Young behind the pen, a future that guaranteed doom, spoke the opposite under the pen.  He ran and fast! He wrote and hard!  He wrote so hard that the dirt around him started to shake, and his skin started to turn.  The hair on his sweaty red knuckles turned from black to grey, as his knee that bounced his feet that dug into the dirt slowed down from an irritating ache.  Green grass starting to sprout around his broken sniper riffle, while the small snake holes opened wider and wider letting in rays of blue sky and patches of warmth amongst his now wrinkled skin.  He didn't seem to care, he just kept writing as if his pen were his legs, and the ink was the horse beside him.  Run and write, type and fight, freedom in sight and a mind full of might.

The old man that once stood below the lonely tree was no longer.  For the black ink captured his character, while the horse became his way out.

Write 2016

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