Tired Feet

He kicked a pebble along the road, and regret immediately hit; not because he was walking along the wrong road, no, he had already convinced himself that he wanted to go that way, but because his sore toes couldn’t have taken the hit, and they didn’t have a consciousness of their own to fool them into believing that they wanted to feel further pain.

Weariness claimed him like a mania, and he gave in. What else was he to do but succumb and surrender to the embrace of the wet grass nestling the wrong-right road? The little needles of greenery greeted his feet with quite the pleasurable pain, and he grinned. He grinned so wide. So wide that his sweet adolescence protruded through and through, and shone too bright that a guffaw escaped his lips.

“HELLO, COUNTRYSIDE!” He bellowed as he approached the village downhill. Being a good kilometer away, he knew he was really bellowing for his own ears, for the silence went on for far too long, and a friendly sound, even as strangled and inadequate as his, would have been welcome. He started skipping a bit, and his feet screamed in pain and protest. “You idiot!” he started reprimanding himself, “when will you realise that your spirit isn’t your body?” he clicked his tongue at himself, “and don’t be so damn French about it. You’re already in France.”

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do, no?”

“Well, this isn’t Rome, smartass.”

“Ah, screw me. If I don’t reach humanity soon, I might just head to the loony bin.”

“FUCKPIE!” he heard himself screaming not ten seconds away after the conversation he had with himself. The light-blue Vespa had but knocked him down the hill. Catching a couple of breaths, he ran after it screaming, demanding an apology, but all he got was a victory sign the other way around.

“WELL, I HOPE THE FRENCH RAPE YOU IN YOUR SLEEP, MATE!” he said returning the gesture.

“The hell is ‘fuckpie’?” he sneered at himself, taking a couple of steps back, and finding himself tumbling ever so rapidly downhill.

He kept his head down with his arms around it and his knees to his chest for the first seven seconds, then when he realised that it’s a long way down, he started to loosen up. He felt the air swish in and out his outrageously-proportioned shorts and the moisture from the grass stain his face. His laughter was soon to follow. Downward he continued to go, looser his limbs became, and louder his laughter grew. He felt as if the earth was moving for his sake; smoothing his transition to the soil below, and he couldn’t wait to hit home.

Exhausted he arrived with all the rush that started to leave his nerves. He sighed quite audibly (he was starting to be fond of the sound of his own voice), and buried his feet in the semi-wet soil with his toes peaking through. His destination, even though viewed from downhill, looked farther than what his feet could endure, so he just buried his feet further, and waited until sunset reigned over.

He had resigned himself to making necklaces out of blades of grass for the rest of the evening, thinking about all the could haves and the would haves, when the sound of an accordion tickled his ears, and made his blistering toes quiver.

Tired Feet

Of Disenchantment

Whew. Long time, no creative juices.

Not that I call myself creative but it is what the public agreed upon as a term for pointless drivel.
As it happens, or has happened and continues to happen, I find myself stuck in one of those mental crevices which, in turn, get me emotionally knotted up. Well, not quite, as we all know how easily emotions can be silenced with a new, exciting read.
At first, my analysis was pathetically basic: “oh, it’s just an anticlimactic phase after a very good month.” It’s not.
It’s disenchantment. Chronic. Overwhelming. Present in every aspect of my little, barely-existent life. And I know that everything magnificent I know is magnificent, and that brilliance is permanent, and I see it (with so much envy) but with so little interest, and, to quote Joe Fox, “remorse inevitably follows”.
And that gets me to question so many things; the authenticity of my affection, the tolerance I have, and show, and how obvious I am in showing people that I can barely care.
But does enchantment mean gratitude? Am I by default with neither loyalty nor gratitude to everything and everyone I ever held passion -and I hold it very blindly- for? I try to look for the answer but it seems like one of those obnoxious box-within-a-box-within-a-box-within-a-box gift-wraps that lead to a potted plant, and I have zero patience for wrappers and plants.
See, I told you it was pointless drivel, you just decided to read on. There was nothing to gain and nothing to relate to– it’s okay, I understand. No one likes to rob themselves of gratitude.
Of Disenchantment