10-03-2020, 08:13 PM
Light, and dark. There is always a fighting force inside of you - an in-between that is felt although you can never quite place a finger on which side you would like to be on. One foot in, one foot out.
Wu has only been on this earth for but nearly a year, and already he can feel the tear inside of him. There is something dark swaying to a song, and there is something light that is begging for the sun. Souls and roots and sun and shade- and it feels like it will never sort itself out. He feels; but he does not know quite yet what the rift inside of him can do. He couldn’t begin to fathom bringing life back from the dead, and he couldn’t imagine edging life into death - but that is what rests tightly inside him, awaiting discovery.
He too, is waiting to be discovered. He is a result of quick thinking, hormones, lust- not to be desired, but to be carried until birth because a split second decision made it so. And now? Now he is alone- not yet a man, but not quite still a child. Drifting in the rift between.
He is still in the heat of the day, the dried and brown grass of the field begging out to him for some semblance of life. He feels it tugging on the strings inside of him; they ask and plead and beg to not succumb to the aching heat of the barren skies. So he tries- he reaches out, feeding green into brown, coaxing life into the flora when there should be none.
And he waits- for life, or death, or something in between.
Wu has only been on this earth for but nearly a year, and already he can feel the tear inside of him. There is something dark swaying to a song, and there is something light that is begging for the sun. Souls and roots and sun and shade- and it feels like it will never sort itself out. He feels; but he does not know quite yet what the rift inside of him can do. He couldn’t begin to fathom bringing life back from the dead, and he couldn’t imagine edging life into death - but that is what rests tightly inside him, awaiting discovery.
He too, is waiting to be discovered. He is a result of quick thinking, hormones, lust- not to be desired, but to be carried until birth because a split second decision made it so. And now? Now he is alone- not yet a man, but not quite still a child. Drifting in the rift between.
He is still in the heat of the day, the dried and brown grass of the field begging out to him for some semblance of life. He feels it tugging on the strings inside of him; they ask and plead and beg to not succumb to the aching heat of the barren skies. So he tries- he reaches out, feeding green into brown, coaxing life into the flora when there should be none.
And he waits- for life, or death, or something in between.