Dragging myself over this dotted landscape of harshness and brutality. The sky is hard and the setting sun is vivid, but a silhouette of myself is all the remains as a reminder that not all remnants get to see their days out in freedom.
Instead I just drag myself along on my two feet up upon the hill and it is all dry and starless and somehow I have to keep on going as though there is no choice in the matter. Perhaps there once was choice and now there is little else other than obligation.
Hoping the night comes sooner rather than later. It is as though the sun is staring at me, unblinking and unflinching. It is though the sun would continue to stare where it not for the fact that the earth rotates and as such the sun can only stare at my for so long. Getting behind the incline won’t help, as the sun will still be there, waiting, waiting until I need to rise up once more.
Once the night comes I can rest, but still I must carry the weight of expectation upon myself and continue to walk. It will provide a reprieve, though only a small one. Still, it is one most desired and most appreciated, for one can only walk for so long, expecting some sort of change in circumstances, yet still losing themselves along the path they think they follow.
Were it not for the decadence in tressels, perhaps there would be no walk at the moment. Perhaps there would be no journey where I had to cast myself beyond and away from myself. Perhaps there still would be thirst considered an inconvenience rather than as a constant.
I look not toward the sun, but toward where it casts its light against the face of what I walk along and see how its colours create a forceful imprint, irresistible, for only the sun decides when it will relent.
The land is quiet and still and I am very much a temporary visitor, looking to find my way out and continue on in the hopes that I may find some sort of chance to finally relax and return to what I once knew, but the longer I spend walking, the more I seem to forget myself. Even if I were to return, would it still be the same? Could I argue that this traveling would be one that I could cast aside? Would I be able to be comfortable with what I once had?
All questions I want to ask but don’t want to answer. Little changes but the scenery, and despite my desire to become once more more than my own husk, I have little choice other than to reside in it and keep on moving forward, or at least attempt to, for the idea of moving forward seems so distant these ideas. The scenery changes, but the sun remains harsh and all that I do is keep on walking forward.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 08:37:39
There’s kind of a personal history behind the phrase “decadence in tressels”, but it’s a rather uninteresting one.
Whilst writing this the phrase popped back into my head after not having thought about it in a rather long time, which was nice.
With this I think I was going more for mood than I was imagery. Not sure.
I like the ideas in the writing, but I feel that it’s overly dramatic and really messy.
Written at home.