11-15-2016, 06:30 PM
He had not noticed it at first, that trace glow that emanated from some internal, iron core in his gut. It had clung to him, like a lover’s embrace, when he lay sleepy and violated on the mountain’s back. Stayed with him, even as he trembled down her, confused and alone – screaming women’s names in his head, because his lips, blue and dry, would not obey.
It was resilient, despite the hazardous atmosphere and the alien forces of gravity, that galactic glow.
At first, it had been an unrecognizable haze. As if his coat had become so thirsty for that ancient energy, it begun to stretch itself out to the above, so much so that somewhere in the endless, dark between, the stars bent down to kiss him. To wish him well. To invite him places he could not go.
He had not noticed it.
Not at first.
And he could not follow, so they left him a postcard made of their of bodies.
It grew. It grew bright, brighter until he could see it blooming from the rounds of his knees and the flats of his shoulders, stronger, of course, at night than during day. He could see that he was like a moon, chained to earth.
And it hurt.
He met Loneliness, then. (Even when she was by his side – clay and grass and beauty, though she numbed it like an earthy remedy, she could not eat it completely. Sister tried, to – tried too hard, to be the only thing he needed to heal.) Giver felt, so intimately, what it was like to be suspended in a deserted corner of space – pale and silver; pockmarked and barren. A moon, without stars. A moon in a black hole.
A moon chained to earth.
Sometimes, he thinks, this is not his world, either. Sometimes, he thinks, he is meant to be oxygenless and still, silent and inanimate. Poetic, lifeless, cosmic to the very nucleus – to be part of same vast, navigational constellation, drawing ships safely across purple oceans and men through endless, red deserts. Free of soul or bonds of body, waiting a trillion years for the moment to consume himself and go out.
But he is blood and flesh and bone, instead. A pretender, damp with salted water and sticking sand – and he loves, for too much, the view from down here.
He it too lost to hear her approach, even with the same sucking sound the ground makes with her own wet hooves. Only when she speaks, disrupting the quiet of his tiny universe, does he turn, almost as taken aback as she is with him. She smells so deeply of seawater, like a well-sailed ship or a treasure chest pulled from it’s briny grave after a century of rest. His brow furrows, her confusion feeding his own. We are so far apart, he thinks, light years. Oceans and space. “No,” he says finally. “I mean, I am. Glowing, I mean,” he turns to face her square, “but, no… I don’t belong in the sky. Not really.”
“They’ve just shared with me a bit. The stars, I mean,” he examines her with tired, troubled eyes. Like a conch shell, all porcelain and pink, washed up on the shore. “You… aren’t from here?” He knows what that is like.
It was resilient, despite the hazardous atmosphere and the alien forces of gravity, that galactic glow.
At first, it had been an unrecognizable haze. As if his coat had become so thirsty for that ancient energy, it begun to stretch itself out to the above, so much so that somewhere in the endless, dark between, the stars bent down to kiss him. To wish him well. To invite him places he could not go.
He had not noticed it.
Not at first.
And he could not follow, so they left him a postcard made of their of bodies.
It grew. It grew bright, brighter until he could see it blooming from the rounds of his knees and the flats of his shoulders, stronger, of course, at night than during day. He could see that he was like a moon, chained to earth.
And it hurt.
He met Loneliness, then. (Even when she was by his side – clay and grass and beauty, though she numbed it like an earthy remedy, she could not eat it completely. Sister tried, to – tried too hard, to be the only thing he needed to heal.) Giver felt, so intimately, what it was like to be suspended in a deserted corner of space – pale and silver; pockmarked and barren. A moon, without stars. A moon in a black hole.
A moon chained to earth.
Sometimes, he thinks, this is not his world, either. Sometimes, he thinks, he is meant to be oxygenless and still, silent and inanimate. Poetic, lifeless, cosmic to the very nucleus – to be part of same vast, navigational constellation, drawing ships safely across purple oceans and men through endless, red deserts. Free of soul or bonds of body, waiting a trillion years for the moment to consume himself and go out.
But he is blood and flesh and bone, instead. A pretender, damp with salted water and sticking sand – and he loves, for too much, the view from down here.
He it too lost to hear her approach, even with the same sucking sound the ground makes with her own wet hooves. Only when she speaks, disrupting the quiet of his tiny universe, does he turn, almost as taken aback as she is with him. She smells so deeply of seawater, like a well-sailed ship or a treasure chest pulled from it’s briny grave after a century of rest. His brow furrows, her confusion feeding his own. We are so far apart, he thinks, light years. Oceans and space. “No,” he says finally. “I mean, I am. Glowing, I mean,” he turns to face her square, “but, no… I don’t belong in the sky. Not really.”
“They’ve just shared with me a bit. The stars, I mean,” he examines her with tired, troubled eyes. Like a conch shell, all porcelain and pink, washed up on the shore. “You… aren’t from here?” He knows what that is like.
![[Image: Gn7EN0n.png]](http://i.imgur.com/Gn7EN0n.png)
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