A Bit of Prose
0
Jericho Antares
FAKKU Writer
Go ahead and give me your worst. A bad critique is a lot more useful than a good one.
In the deep languid lustre of night I slept with steady breaths, my chest rising and falling to the beat of life. The air flowed through me and filled my blood, but not my thoughts, for they were somewhere else entirely.
Infused with Ambrosia and Soma were my dreams, and I walked the entirety of the Earth with a girl I never knew, who I never spoke to, who I loved. The soft pressure of her hand was the only thing I felt from her, and the memories of what we saw the only things we shared. We saw everything in reverent silence, save for the sun rising above the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant array of colors as I knew it would.
We never shared the sunrise, for I had always already awoken, and watched it alone, through double-paned glass with a listless gaze. The pressure on my hand was absent, and it numbed the experience. I could never tell her what it was like, for that would violate the sanctity of our silence.
Tantalizing sunsets were in spades betwixt us, however, and I always found the prospect gloomy. The time I first felt her hand on mine every day was the same time that the day died and disappeared. Even in my dreams I found myself dreaming of glancing over and seeing her face against pale blues skies and verdant green forests, but dreams remain such, and this goes doubly so for the dreams of dreams.
So, in the gloomy, cold hours of the morning, I watch the sunrise with a long sigh, and I tuck the longing I feel into the recesses of my mind. Still there, but safely distant. With renewed security layered on the insecurities of the waking world I set off.
Cursory glances, I spare for the world, more of a survey than actual study. Nothing seems to carry the weight it does at night. That is, until, I noticed a familiar contour of features, though lit in a way I had never seen them before. There she was, flesh and blood in the sunlight, and as I stared, she gazed my way as well, amber irises boring into my entire being.
Then I woke up, shaking from deja vu. A full moon streaming through my window and a cold sweat trickling down my forehead. The most disturbing feeling, however, was the pressure on my hand.
In the deep languid lustre of night I slept with steady breaths, my chest rising and falling to the beat of life. The air flowed through me and filled my blood, but not my thoughts, for they were somewhere else entirely.
Infused with Ambrosia and Soma were my dreams, and I walked the entirety of the Earth with a girl I never knew, who I never spoke to, who I loved. The soft pressure of her hand was the only thing I felt from her, and the memories of what we saw the only things we shared. We saw everything in reverent silence, save for the sun rising above the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant array of colors as I knew it would.
We never shared the sunrise, for I had always already awoken, and watched it alone, through double-paned glass with a listless gaze. The pressure on my hand was absent, and it numbed the experience. I could never tell her what it was like, for that would violate the sanctity of our silence.
Tantalizing sunsets were in spades betwixt us, however, and I always found the prospect gloomy. The time I first felt her hand on mine every day was the same time that the day died and disappeared. Even in my dreams I found myself dreaming of glancing over and seeing her face against pale blues skies and verdant green forests, but dreams remain such, and this goes doubly so for the dreams of dreams.
So, in the gloomy, cold hours of the morning, I watch the sunrise with a long sigh, and I tuck the longing I feel into the recesses of my mind. Still there, but safely distant. With renewed security layered on the insecurities of the waking world I set off.
Cursory glances, I spare for the world, more of a survey than actual study. Nothing seems to carry the weight it does at night. That is, until, I noticed a familiar contour of features, though lit in a way I had never seen them before. There she was, flesh and blood in the sunlight, and as I stared, she gazed my way as well, amber irises boring into my entire being.
Then I woke up, shaking from deja vu. A full moon streaming through my window and a cold sweat trickling down my forehead. The most disturbing feeling, however, was the pressure on my hand.