Thursday, August 12, 2010
He counts the hours but it's all a haze: reality has been given a fuzzy new filter to be seen through. Its been... thirty-two, no, thirty six, yes, its been thirty-six hours. He thinks of Iliad. He dreams of Iliad. Iliad, like any goal, desire or unattainable fantasy understands. At least he hopes. He hopes Iliad understands.
Monday, August 2, 2010
I'd watch the trees. The trees'd watch me. It was mutual observation. A tree is a great surveyor. So still. All it does is watch. The air. The soil. The water. It watches without looking. I wasn't scared of the trees miraculously springing 'to life', uprooting themselves and chasing me with outstretched branchy hands. No. No I was more scared of what they could do without me even noticing. What they could do while they were deathly still. Silently releasing leaves in Autumn. Growing quietly. Reaching out underground in every direction. The tree had always had the upper hand.