Friday, June 17, 2005

Change of Pace

Okay, so, this friend of mine (a seductive, alluring blonde) forwarded me the following story today. She said I inspired her to write it. Said I was just like the kid in the story. What do you think?

A kid ran away from home because his parents mistreated him daily. Everyone called him a freak. His pimples covered new ground in unsightliness; his withdrawal from normal" kids, subatomic fission. He was bad at sports, a slow speaker and shy, courteous but clumsy and often sitting by himself in the grass. Fresh spring grass if possible. Sunlight was the kid's companion.

The funny thing was that the kid knew something that no one else knew. He saw people through dim vision, corrupting the integrity of light in everything. The corrugated shadows in people formed sprightly, laughing ghosts, floating in different directions by the moods of their mornings. He grew to understand that these ethereal formations were reflections of character, and reflections of what human beings had in places that no one talks about, thinks about, writes about, and only rarely dreams about.

But he could read them. He could read people. He saw spirits unleashed, and harbingers of bad times. When his father would go out with his "buddies" the light was a malicious red and full of energy. Dangerous energy that sent the kid sprawling for an isolated darkness, where no silhouetted apparitions could haunt him.

Despite smiles from his mother, he saw an orange incandescence, pulsating with fury, ravenous with warning. She would shout and his eyes were pained. The kid closed his eyes during confrontations, which were frequent, but not because he was scared (though he was). Rather, the kid was hurting inside. A desperate aching, a desperate inner hurt. Wailing tear-stains on his inside, atrophied innocence. The physical beatings were savage.

Yet, the kid saw goodness too. Fairies and angels, pristine in their brightness, kindly, fluid. They giggled and chortled, and the kid would laugh along, losing time in solitude, rolling in the grassy shade. He knew not why.

But the bad times never ceased, and the good times conspired to elude him. So he ran away from home with nothing but a jar. An empty jar and a change of clothes. He wasn't sure where he was going, he had no vessel to get him there. He only had his lone talent, and his bitter sadness. The young boy was alone.

He was alone, but he had something beautiful, a gift that only a tortured soul would have, he saw what truly was. It's amazing how much it can hurt when everyone and everything you know and love isn't what you think or expect them to be.

He walked through the flower-covered fields searching for something pure. He picked up the blossoming lilacs and tried to make himself feel complete again. Anything tangent, that needs food or water or love. He came upon a creek, where moss grew and stones eroded. He knew that something magical was happening. At that moment, he saw her.

He was mesmerized. How could anything be so perfect and be so real at the same time? The light around her was blinding, almost so much that you couldn't see, but yet you still had to look. She was certainly aesthetically pleasing, but it was more than that. For the first time in so long he felt safe. She smiled at him and asked him to come lay with her. The kid followed. She cradled him in her arms and held him because she knew that was what he needed. He fell asleep.

In the morning he awoke to the slow, meticulous sound of the creek making its lazy course. He looked for his friend, seeing nothing but the sky. The kid began walking again, not really knowing what had happened. As he walked, his legs grew tired, and just as he stopped to rest, a hawk swooped down and tore a gash into his neck. The kid did not worry or cry. And as crows circled and devoured his flesh, he did not shudder. In fact, he didn't make a sound.

He died that night on his long walk back to nothing or no one. But when the boy was found, there was a smile on his face. The smile was not one of contempt or complacency, but of happiness.
Lying next to his mangled body was the jar. The jar was closed, but it glowed and everyone who saw it wanted to open it. Eventually someone did and what ensued was incredible. It was the purest form of perfection that one could ever know. And at that moment, the gathering that had found this young boy felt happiness. Not because he had died a horrible death, but because he had experienced what they could only see, or read about, talk about and sometimes dream about.
— The LDL

Personally, I think that my powers preclude this type of event. But I appreciate the sentiments. May you have pleasant dreams tonight.
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