S E I J I
He is counting. It feels like the right thing to do. Not the beats of his heart — that steady drum — or the endless push-pull of his breath. Both run a constant meter on their own, though he feels as if the dying light of evening might shine through him if he stepped out of the trees. He is counting something else, some foreign thing, which eludes him now except in the form of this meter. His fingertips tap the outside of his thigh, keeping time while his thoughts wander.
It is dark here. Shadows stretch long and hungrily out of the roots. Above, the sky is pale and bruised. The scratch of jagged limbs. The whisper of a cold, cold breeze. It will soon be night, but he doesn't remember the day which must have come earlier. He knows he is cold. He knows he has been walking some time. But before the wood — he remembers nothing. As if he has only just begun to exist.
A shiver runs through him, and he hugs narrow arms about himself. His jacket isn't enough for this. But then, why is he wearing it? And why is he in this wood, the middle of this dense wood, all alone? He isn't sure if he's coming or going. Perhaps the wood is the only place there is.
But some deep sense tells him it can't be. Something, a kindling flame, a flickering sense of self, whispers there was more. There were things beyond this. Warmth, and happiness. Perhaps if he keeps walking, he will find them.
He is counting. It feels like the right thing to do. Not the beats of his heart — that steady drum — or the endless push-pull of his breath. Both run a constant meter on their own, though he feels as if the dying light of evening might shine through him if he stepped out of the trees. He is counting something else, some foreign thing, which eludes him now except in the form of this meter. His fingertips tap the outside of his thigh, keeping time while his thoughts wander.
It is dark here. Shadows stretch long and hungrily out of the roots. Above, the sky is pale and bruised. The scratch of jagged limbs. The whisper of a cold, cold breeze. It will soon be night, but he doesn't remember the day which must have come earlier. He knows he is cold. He knows he has been walking some time. But before the wood — he remembers nothing. As if he has only just begun to exist.
A shiver runs through him, and he hugs narrow arms about himself. His jacket isn't enough for this. But then, why is he wearing it? And why is he in this wood, the middle of this dense wood, all alone? He isn't sure if he's coming or going. Perhaps the wood is the only place there is.
But some deep sense tells him it can't be. Something, a kindling flame, a flickering sense of self, whispers there was more. There were things beyond this. Warmth, and happiness. Perhaps if he keeps walking, he will find them.
The rain is full
of ghosts tonight
of ghosts tonight
IhavenoideawhatI'mdoing
