Feeling Creative  

docdirk 49M
5418 posts
11/26/2005 9:30 pm

Last Read:
3/13/2010 10:26 pm

Feeling Creative

(Over at the Blogger's Cafe, we're having a creative writing challenge. Just the thing to get the creative juices flowing!)

I had never felt so cold. The passing of summer to autumn to winter seemed to be a simultaneous event. Just like life itself. From dream to reality back to dream. Always leaving me empty, longing for more. Yet, not knowing what that might be. What it was that constantly disrupted my dreams while haunting my consciousness. What it was that hijacked my awareness, leaving me numb, snowblind, so desparately cold.

There is a spot not far from my home that I like to visit from time-to-time. An innocent location. A roadside rendezvous overlooking a kaleidoscope of natural wonderment that changes faces with the passing of the seasons. A stretch of faded blacktop in a rural country town that winds its way from the sparse lights of humanity into the glorious blackness of the hills above. Its there - at the apex of the sharpest corner - where I find my place. A refreshing lungful of harvest air. A crisp gulp of life that crackles in my throat and re-charges my blood, sending it swirling through the decaying fibers of my being, until taking root in my comatose mind, forcing motion, action, remembrance. An overlook upon the world below. Upon a life laid out like a topographical map of years long past and out of reach. As I trace the lights, the turns, the darkened corners that unfold below, a shape slowly begins to take form. An image from another time, another life, another promise gone bad. A face. Her face. My unravelling.

A sensation dashes across my face like the current of an electric charge. The slashing of skin with a razor blade. The burning of flesh with toxic acid. The tender tickling of her eye lashes. It's all the same. Yet, none of it matters. I am long past feeling, sensation, life. I am alone. I am without the one whose mere existance formed the boundaries of my hopes and dreams. The one whose name I cannot quite recall. The one whose every fiber I had traced with the beating of my heart, but whose face I cannot recollect. She is my everything. Was my everything. But, perhaps, she never was. Had we ever met? Have I gone mad? Can longing truly exist without feeling? Without touch, without love?

My eyes open wide as if freed by rusty zipper. The sensation I felt, the feeling for which I longed, the current of anguish which wrinkled my face has spoken its name. Tears. Tears of lust, longing and bewilderment. The face below me has a name, my name. For the faded image upon which I look is my own reflection. The darkened forest in which it lies is my own life. Cold, desolate, longing for either rescue or surrender.

It is a cold winter's eve falling on a mountain so high. I breathe the night deep into my lungs. It is all I can think to do.

Ah, Its you again, Your Angel Feathers and your Blood Stains...

kyplowboy22 62M

11/29/2005 8:10 am

Saw your stuff over on the thread at the "cafe" and came hear to see more...awesome work, beau. Both places. Tell us more. Later.


rm_sj365 57F
2414 posts
11/29/2005 8:44 pm

Crap! this is just so good!
*giggles* sorry..i say crap when i'm excited.

kyplowboy22 mentioned you as a 'new writer' to check out in his comment on my blog.

crap! now i owe him a favor
crap! now i have to go check the 'cafe' (whatever that is)

docdirk 49M

12/1/2005 8:12 pm

Oh.... crap!

Ah, Its you again, Your Angel Feathers and your Blood Stains...

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