Thirty Four

Day Thirty-Four:  Wait For it

Something about this sound that happened everytime I walked, everytime I lifted my feet to hear what was underneath I could hear…something.  It was not distant, but closer than I dare accept.  Acknowledging these footsteps it seemed to break itself into a run, dodging tree’s, a force part of my body but then again not.  That feeling when you watch yourself from above, separate from your being, but at the same time the adrenaline still beating through your veins.  Adrenaline:  the pushing force to remind you that you are alive.  The footsteps beneath me, I could feel everything but the clay slapping underneath the fingerprints I left that were ingrained in my being.  If I could leave my prints anywhere it would be here.

I remembered seeing this place somewhere when I could see again.  It was a place that was always dark despite the weather, always damp despite the temperature, always crowded despite the company, and always silent despite the noise.  I remember tree’s, but sometimes I think I made those up, too.  Just like the footsteps beneath me I knew they existed somewhere, but it might not have been in that exact moment, or state, that would embrace reality to those thoughts.

So beside me, the tree’s that were neither there nor not, sat still as I passed, passing like ghosts through the mildew and fog, or no fog, but some sort of heavy ache was setting in.  The air passing through me as I passed through it, we accepted eachother and acknowledged, yet again, that passing was just a part of the right now.  The passing of my feet, the tree’s, the wind.  It was all past, as if the present passed by so silently it never existed.  I realised then that the present was a ghost of the passing moment, all in all we were never quite present, but always passing something.

Watching my back my psychological state eroded as I passed by the rest of the tree’s, the rest of the ghosts that reminded me only of Duncan, of triumph, or a regicide unknown to most in these tree’s.  So distant today like other days, I let my feet carry me further into what I knew would comfort yet discourage my senses from travelling onwards.  Could these feet even immobilise themselves?  If I tried, but was that will and power in me?  Enough to take a step back?  To elope my fears to my everyday notions of normalcy?  I was about to teach my own feet to assume complete contentedness:  to forget my mental abilities and float onward to what could only be described as the new prints of my life.

But my life exceeded today, so maybe just this week.  Yes, the coming future would newly refresh my prints of this week.  The thing about the present is that it is always fleeting, always following behind you closely, puffing short breathes behind those footsteps that sometimes we regret as a reminder to you so you never forgot.  The clay below, and everything around, breathed in deeply as if to signify a change that although I couldn’t see from above would soon become clear to me as “almost there.”  Destinations are precarious when travelling by foot and not by head.  Or heart, for that matter, but at this point I was clearly just flesh and flattering myself with intimate, mid-rate insufficient “thoughts,” or what I could only describe as such.  It would turn to be something more of a memory, but sometimes I forget memories as much as I forget what happened at breakfast this morning.  Duncan, the past’s partner, blowing cool streams of light air on my back, as if the wind had held his hand this whole time and begrudgingly given him agency again.  As if Duncan would be able to allow anyone to wash their hands from this.

So it was the woods then, I realised, that were embracing me and taking my feet.  This was no longer mine, and as I wandered through the thick brushes I could feel pulses of those “thoughts” returning tomy body, as they had vacated the moment my feet took hold of my will.  These “thoughts” returned rapidly, overflowing and preventing any…  Should it be so easy?   Should this following become any clearer to me?  Is it possible to stop?  At this point, I was forgetting Duncan and moving forward, seeing my life reflecting in the forest beside me.  Not as old as I felt as well as not as alive as I meant to be.  The relevance of these steps was still fleeting  my consciousness as much as I could allow.  Or was it allowing when the possibility never arose in the first place?

X

I desperately want to write more of this but I think I’m going to leave it there and take some time to form what I want next, this is sort of my writing style, usually I use less grammar and punctuation and more words, usually my writing is brimming with mentality and obscurities, I tried to cling to sanity and clarity in this one, although this might just become the month of me developing a great story for myself.  I wrote all of this today, and it doesn’t seem like much and I should write more but I don’t think so.  Gosh, it turned out so good, thank god I was so worry.  I think it’s the Arcade Fire backtrack, note to self:  write more tomorrow.  Kthanks.