He feels the pressure of his body heavy on his fingertips as the jagged cliff edge begins to pierce them. Blood trickles slowly down his arms like a trail of ants evacuating home in search for food; the need to survive. His skinny arms tighten and tremble as he tries pulling himself up, but the sharp edges penetrate his fingertips further. Pain, like digging into fiery coals with bare hands melting the flesh, a device of torture on a heretic in the inquisition ripping his arms from his torso, the crashing of doors slamming and their rusty hinges screeching scream into his ears not allowing his mind to catch up with his eyes that stare to the bottom of this canyon and latch tighter to acceptance with the release of every wet droplet of hope that falls and shatters into a million microscopic molecules with each push of wind that beats them against the dry boulders. The rocks slide deeper into his fingers pushing his fingernails upwards, creating a geyser of thick red blood. He closes his eyes, keeping in the last remaining bit of life he has left and exhales slowly. His feet become heavier, his face more red, veins trying to escape his tightened neck. “Fuck!” He cries out to himself under his last still breath as his eyes open and the last of his tears explodes from his eyes like a child fumbling the fly ball in the outfield in his last shot of redemption to the team and drops it. His fingertips split as the weight rips them away from their rocky prongs and he begins to fall timelessly towards the bottom. The air is cool, refreshing. His eyes, dried by the wind, close as he listens to the doors quiet and open for a new light. This is where he began; humbled.
His foggy eyes open, blurry and half closed, not yet wet enough to handle the beaming sun peering out over the edge of the cliff above him. He lifts his hands. No blood. He turns his head. No pain. To his left stands a dark skinned woman with her dreaded hair pulled back to show her small hemp necklace with a miniature conch dangling down to her breasts. She stands, talking to a man of very average demeanor, a white shirt with blue jeans, short brown hair, brown eyes, and a long nose that holds up his large rimmed glasses that make his eyes twice the size of a normal man.
“Just imagine,” He says through a giant smile and also with the flailing of his arms, “a greenhouse filled with nothing but dirt and dandelions. Every two days a big fan turns on and blows every seed into the air to float around. Each one lands and reproduces to make a bunch of new dandelions. That would be the most beautiful thing to watch…”
Laughing, almost sarcastically with wide eyes, the woman gasps, “you're right. It would be like a...”
“And then cycle after cycle" he continues, in his own world, "the dandelions would eventually evolve to live outside of the dirt and grow on the walls. They would be able to walk to the water whenever they need it…” His eyes grow huge, too big to fit in the magnified frame of the glasses, “and then they’d grow brains, they’d feel life and exist to reproduce under the fan every other day. Would two days for them be equivalent to a lifetime for us? Or would two days still be perceived as two days and a dandelion is born to understand the necessity to walk to water to live and to walk to the fan to die and spread its seed after two days… Could you imagine being born knowing that after two days you have to kill yourself?”
“You just don’t get it...” He lowers his head and kicks the sand, “...time man, we just let it pass by and no one understands.”
gracieabrams
snowghoul
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
tangentwithtanner
amandla
gamechangershow
blakekathryn
titsay
2087
germansingergirl
