Saturday, April 24, 2004
Crossed Swords
He kneels in the clearing with a hand steadying his sword in its scabbard, eyes downcast, lost in quiet contemplation.
The ground all around him : an even, unblemished blanket of pristine-white snow awash in the flood of broad, unbridled daylight.
The air on his face is crisp, and cold.
Silence forms a feathered duvet of absolute stillness, broken only infrequently by the nearly imperceptible thuds of tears of thawing dewdrops falling from the boughs of trees, crying in the dawn.
Awakening the senses.
He knows this place. He has been here before. Or somewhere very like it.
He has chanced upon places that reminded him of here, and turned back from the shades that haunted him. The shades in his mind.
He has vowed never to actively seek this place again, but simply to walk where his feet carried him, cast to the winds.
The irony of chance has led him a dance, back. To this place.
He knows this place.
An enormous clearing in the midst of the forest, sealed from the outside world on all sides by trees. A place that gives solitude to the mind fraught with the chaos of reality and the ugliness of the Everyday.
He has been here, once before.
The chill air settles in a loving embrace over his armour, attracted by its warmth. His armour, weathered steel, the burnish battered and scratched with the passage of time and battle, but whole and intact, integrity maintained. No gleaming, polished plate of a handsomely regal knight, this. No marks, no sigils, no standards of the cavaliar. Undecorated. Plain and dull, but sufficient to stop a blow. Armour.
He kneels with his head cocked slightly to one side, listening to the silent debate playing out within the courtroom of his mind.
Voices. Not mere whispers. The inner voices we all share, that daily seek to remind us who we are.
Neither guiding, nor leading astray - right and wrong, are the consequences of the interpretations and decisions we make, after hearing out our voices. As he is doing now.
There are footprints in the snow. A single pair of footprints, leading away from him towards the far side of the clearing.
Absently, he traces one with his fingertips.
Finally, he rises to his feet with a slight, single nod to himself in silent acquiescence, loosens his sword in his scabbard and begins to walk.
Warily measured steps crunch regularly in the snow.
Eyes alive now, look about you. Look lively. Listen lively. Drink the air.
Do not rush in, where angels fear to tread.
*****
Exotic + 10
This one sparkles. She engages. She parries and ripostes with ease. She spars with him verbally, matching, pacing, countering. Taking the offensive. And he cannot help but to laugh.
And all his previous - half a lifetime's - assumptions prove to be, completely incorrect.
This reminiscent not-quite stranger does not hurt him, in her similarity to the spectre from his Past.
He does not find himself appraising or comparing her with his yardsticks of habit. Nor does he find himself thrown back into his past. As he notices the similarities, he does not feel jars of sadness and reminiscence. Nor does he feel stabs of joy. He simply cannot help but to notice. And occasionally, to wonder at their being, at all. (Unknown, unknown, move swiftly on)
He finds himself wanting to know more about this not-quite stranger - not merely about every similarity to his Past. Not even every degree of concordence to Before.
Nor is he consumed with the need to discover an anti-concordence to his past. To find a way of losing his memories, in difference. (Indifference) To prove the age-old adage: opposites attract. (His past is present in his mind, but it does not sadden him now - learn from the mistakes. Don't just watch and listen. Don't just be the one thinking "Oh. I was thinking that, how strange" - speak occasionally. Take the words from her mind, before she does from mine. Share. Dance.)
He wants to know simply more, about her. To discover every contour of her mind, every curve of her spirit. Every turn of her thoughts. Every taste of her humour. Every nuance of speech. Every touch of her soul.
Every corridor, every closed door.
Not for a particular reason. Not for any specific outcome.
The road ahead is confusing enough.
But simply, just for Now. Because Now is precious.
How long, one wonders, does it take to know all about someone?
He must meet her again.
******
He kneels in the clearing with a hand steadying his sword in its scabbard, eyes downcast, lost in quiet contemplation.
The ground all around him : an even, unblemished blanket of pristine-white snow awash in the flood of broad, unbridled daylight.
The air on his face is crisp, and cold.
Silence forms a feathered duvet of absolute stillness, broken only infrequently by the nearly imperceptible thuds of tears of thawing dewdrops falling from the boughs of trees, crying in the dawn.
Awakening the senses.
He knows this place. He has been here before. Or somewhere very like it.
He has chanced upon places that reminded him of here, and turned back from the shades that haunted him. The shades in his mind.
He has vowed never to actively seek this place again, but simply to walk where his feet carried him, cast to the winds.
The irony of chance has led him a dance, back. To this place.
He knows this place.
An enormous clearing in the midst of the forest, sealed from the outside world on all sides by trees. A place that gives solitude to the mind fraught with the chaos of reality and the ugliness of the Everyday.
He has been here, once before.
The chill air settles in a loving embrace over his armour, attracted by its warmth. His armour, weathered steel, the burnish battered and scratched with the passage of time and battle, but whole and intact, integrity maintained. No gleaming, polished plate of a handsomely regal knight, this. No marks, no sigils, no standards of the cavaliar. Undecorated. Plain and dull, but sufficient to stop a blow. Armour.
He kneels with his head cocked slightly to one side, listening to the silent debate playing out within the courtroom of his mind.
Voices. Not mere whispers. The inner voices we all share, that daily seek to remind us who we are.
Neither guiding, nor leading astray - right and wrong, are the consequences of the interpretations and decisions we make, after hearing out our voices. As he is doing now.
There are footprints in the snow. A single pair of footprints, leading away from him towards the far side of the clearing.
Absently, he traces one with his fingertips.
Finally, he rises to his feet with a slight, single nod to himself in silent acquiescence, loosens his sword in his scabbard and begins to walk.
Warily measured steps crunch regularly in the snow.
Eyes alive now, look about you. Look lively. Listen lively. Drink the air.
Do not rush in, where angels fear to tread.
*****
Exotic + 10
This one sparkles. She engages. She parries and ripostes with ease. She spars with him verbally, matching, pacing, countering. Taking the offensive. And he cannot help but to laugh.
And all his previous - half a lifetime's - assumptions prove to be, completely incorrect.
This reminiscent not-quite stranger does not hurt him, in her similarity to the spectre from his Past.
He does not find himself appraising or comparing her with his yardsticks of habit. Nor does he find himself thrown back into his past. As he notices the similarities, he does not feel jars of sadness and reminiscence. Nor does he feel stabs of joy. He simply cannot help but to notice. And occasionally, to wonder at their being, at all. (Unknown, unknown, move swiftly on)
He finds himself wanting to know more about this not-quite stranger - not merely about every similarity to his Past. Not even every degree of concordence to Before.
Nor is he consumed with the need to discover an anti-concordence to his past. To find a way of losing his memories, in difference. (Indifference) To prove the age-old adage: opposites attract. (His past is present in his mind, but it does not sadden him now - learn from the mistakes. Don't just watch and listen. Don't just be the one thinking "Oh. I was thinking that, how strange" - speak occasionally. Take the words from her mind, before she does from mine. Share. Dance.)
He wants to know simply more, about her. To discover every contour of her mind, every curve of her spirit. Every turn of her thoughts. Every taste of her humour. Every nuance of speech. Every touch of her soul.
Every corridor, every closed door.
Not for a particular reason. Not for any specific outcome.
The road ahead is confusing enough.
But simply, just for Now. Because Now is precious.
How long, one wonders, does it take to know all about someone?
He must meet her again.
******
