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Denver He Tor First Draft

Denver He Tor First Draft

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Published by eightman8

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Published by: eightman8 on May 27, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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His eyes squinted hard against the torrential onslaught. Briefcase clutchedtightly in one hand he raised the other in a futile attempt to keep the rain from hiseyes. His feet ached, having trodden straight through the bottom of his shoes sometime ago, the tattered hems of his trousers dragged on the ground, puddling aroundhis cut and bloodied toes. The asphalt was rough, as if it had been laid many yearsbefore and then forgotten, and yet he was strangely comforted. His mouth had beenclenched tight for so long, the power of speech escaped him. His muscles ached sobadly that he had only the strength to repeat the same motion, over and overagain. His very lungs clenched tight against the cold and he drew breath in short,ragged gasps and yet
he was comforted.
This road along which he traveled was ahard one, one he’d walked for as long as he could remember, but it was his road. Heknew every crack, every twisting turn. He needn’t think to walk this path, merelysurvive, and survival meant just to continue the trudge.
I walk, I think…oh Descartes…I know you were…but how can I be?
He’d lost count of his footsteps so long ago that time had becomemeaningless, but after what could only have been a period of many years his feetscraped against dirt for the first time, finding the rain abated a little bit he raised hiseyes to the path ahead of him and was surprised at what met his gaze; a fork. Herubbed the water from his listless eyes, hoping to see something other than thischoice. As if he were being mocked by the cosmos, the rain dropped off around him,allowing him to drop his arms to his sides and face the split in his world head on. Hewasn’t sure how long he stood there, mind blank, aghast at the prospect of havingto take part in the production of his own destiny. He began to pace, once in a whilerifling through the blank papers in his briefcase, hoping for some semblance of direction, some sort of instruction on how to proceed, but there was none to befound. His shoulders sagged in defeat, accepting the inevitability. To stand here anylonger wasn’t an option. He looked down one path, cracked and worn, as his old onehad been. He gathered himself for what was to come, took a deep breath, then setoff down the second path, his face muscles ached as he smiled a long awaitedsmile, brimming with mirth at the cliché he’d just acted out. He breathed a sigh of relief as his feet felt smooth, newly laid street beneath them. The horizon openedup in front of him, the sun peaked out from behind his guilt and he was suddenly
able to see the land stretched out before him. Looking back over his shoulder hecould see massive stack of his bad decisions flitting away on a warm breeze.
So I put my best foot forward and take the kind of deep breath that givesme away as the kind of person who deals with anxiety and odd numbers
He set off at an even pace, not looking back, not ever again. The next forkthat he came to he took in stride, not even looking down before choosing the newdirection; deviation wasn’t nearly so scary any more. He broke into a run, and flunghis tie down in front of him. He began unbuttoning his shirt and it too was soon leftbehind. The trousers came next and finally he was running without thought of direction, wind ripping across his undershirt and striped boxer-shorts. On thehorizon and approaching rapidly was a dark shape. His pace didn’t slow but he tooksome time to examine his surroundings as he continued to let his feet choose pathafter path. All the roads were converging on one another, not being integrated,merely winding and weaving themselves together. These languid lengths of longblack ribbon wriggled and writhed with an almost serpentine grace. His path thenseemed to tear itself from the ground holding it, his feet held strong and he willedhimself to remain stuck to the surface, he had to continue his trek…it was almostover. He was flipped and turned as he sprinted along the path, eager to get to thecenter of existence, suddenly he found himself face to face where the place where itall came together. A free flowing knot of highway ribbons sat before his eyes,suspended in the air above his path, through all the undulation and seeminglychaotic motion, he sensed a cool order…at the very least a feeling of purpose. As if sensing his thoughts, the flow slowed, and he was able to perceive a slow butsteady rhythm, a heartbeat. Reassured now more than ever that this was the rightplace, he held out his hand, and suddenly plunged it straight into the blackness.With a sigh of relief and of release, the man with the briefcase, the man with nochoice but ‘forward’, the man with no hope but the next step, in a bright flash thatman ceased to be.In his place stood a man with all the answers.
smirked and thought to
Something is still something, and like some cats saySomething’s better than nothingWill I be something?Can I be something?Am I something?And the answer comes: Already am, always was, and I still have time to be

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