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Careful With That Axe, Pichu!
April 29th, 2008, 07:15 PM
Impressioni di Settembre


For days I breathe and the fear doesn't dither, and as I stay still facing the old, burnished wall clock I become more sentient. I dread days, and I fear the twilight frequently. Is this hilarity, disgrace? It is, even to me; but I remain cold before a hurried judgment in my mind. One find, one that is to caress my nerve and make me shiver, stumbling across the road of a dumb pursuit, a pathway struck with pictures and walls, and a beacon I urge not to reach. I compare a lifetime. I lay it by the face of anything as ordinary as time, as sunlight. What are my days? Distant remnants of a broken echo, which insidiously carve themselves into a colorless wall once more, and are now forming a mirror, falling and clashing like jigsaws into timelines of disgrace, of panic, of unconstant smiles, this life. I make of hours years, I make of seconds weeks. Being leads to death. As daylight to dark, each derides the other and then dusk marks a nearby end, dawn is a new timeline; but not unchanged. Mine is to end sometime.

I walk through a silent alley. One place I know as much as I know myself; where I remain oblivious to the demands of a different culture. I vaguely distinguish the time of day, but it should be daybreak already... It's the only reason I feel willing to discern what the sunlight will now bring.

I hesitate a moment, still... There will be no sunlight. I know this reaching down the gloomy brick corridor I scarcely pierced, and I come out to grasp a screen on which the morning caress is as twilight, and a dim contrast between that and the dull red luster from the walkway makes no worry on my eyes. Also, even ironically, I was truly expecting to be bathed by sunlight for a day, while it often made me ill. Instead I'm soaked by cold drops of lucid, tumbling water, while I continue my wandering through the frame of a quiet city, below a sky overcome by dreary clouds.

After a few steps the square and I are already drenched by rain, and I become aware of early birds, dim and sleepless working people that enjoy the humid smell of sodden pavement. Those could be people unafraid, brave and willing, troubling about things that deal with life, ignoring death today, as literal as oil stains on my shoe. It is just when death can hold onto a wanted person when one becomes anxious once more like I have. Whether one loves life or finds its end repulsive, depending on the soul, it gives our time either a sour drop of terror or a healthy, timeless laugh. Only people like me are to know death can't be forgiving, and its arrival chronic, as it will lead us to fear, yet when it's not close. I still miss her... Even the bright premise of days seems cloudy to me now, because it's a longtime, jaded, once so waited love which I now starve, which I lost, what I am to blame for my now derailed alarm. I wonder why I was to suffer; I wonder why it was not I. Would I still stumble at the mention of fatality? If this wasn't meant to be me, would I still be gazing upon the faded skyline?

Maybe it all is once more senseless, merely verbal or rhetorical as I sit by a damp way of concrete. I watch the autumn leaves hurry, glide on moist air that surrounds me; fixed on muddy floors beside the hard park's pathway, lifeless, they add to my portrait of fallen proposals. Of course, looking at the lengthy limit of the hills, I still weep inside, like a lost child, as If I bore a painful fate, one none could ever handle. I could also find that thought repulsive. But those hills are different than me; they helplessly attempt to carry the sun once more, and I should believe, for once, I'm not a pessimist.

The streets are still mirrors to the heavens, and lights are not to be found anymore, as the sun has rose up to my left, slowly moving eastward. I find this graceful as that thick blanket with gray degrades its glow, and it does not cease its struggle to come through to me. It does not vacillate, it reaches out, it wants to wash me with its flush... Then, just then, I stop by a thought, a coming muse; the potent radiance, it does not give in. It won't grasp the grounds with frail indent; it crawls by the limit of that murky layer, crying to surmount it. It's racing behind me. Whether it will ever sink beyond my sight, it won't be senseless to realize it will then meet my back again. Me... "Shouldn't that be me?" I whisper, feeling quite awkward at this mention. I suddenly know how warm should be the stir that was to reach me once again, it's faint, but easy, while I had yet forgotten; it's faith. Even still tapped by rain...

While I see this, while I am not cold but remain still below these tears to humble failure, I cannot count the seconds, or the hours. It could have been several great ages until I learned it was noon. The hollow drumming of the drizzle had already ceased to tap against trees, old and moth-eaten, as a thin beam of light had been boiling my wet shoes.

After all, the sun had given me its glow. Something on it tore the rain away, and the city was vivid as the spectrum from the blend of light and water. Everything was looking casual, again... Radiant, perhaps? But I could not help smiling at the void after what I told. I never lingered for such an ordinary sight to change that aged and sad outlook I had held fixed for years so suddenly; nor I was able to remember ever truly enjoying the plain image to my front: a cozy, orange-tinted atmosphere, a western breeze and the voices of the leaves, the essence of September. Nostalgia... "Heh" I muttered, still smiling, but halted by surprise.

"I've never actually liked orange..."

BeachBoy
April 29th, 2008, 08:06 PM
I already messaged you about this, but figured I mine as well comment too.

The mental imagery provided in this piece of literature is incredible. You painted a picture with your words and it was amazing to read. Heck, makes me read it over and over. The words grabbed my attention and kept me reading. It wasn't overwhelming either, just gave a vivid and perfect picture. The metaphors were also pin point such as "the voices of the leaves". You really hit a level of excellence.

Whether one loves life or finds its end repulsive, depending on the soul, it gives our time either a sour drop of terror or a healthy, timeless laugh.
That was probably my favorite sentence in this.

I really really enjoyed reading this. In my opinion... This is a fantastic piece of literature, Careful With That Axe, Pichu.

Careful With That Axe, Pichu!
May 2nd, 2008, 07:09 PM
I'm very glad you liked it. Thanks a lot for the reply & PM! And thanks for reading it too. I'm very pleased to see it's apparently got solid imagery, it was my major concern about it. Nevertheless, I'm very proud of the piece because it flowed perfectly from my mind to paper when I wrote it, and there have been no major alterations. Thanks again, BB!