Monday, March 16, 2015

The Man who was Two

I'm filling my life with fiction right now, and for once, I'm writing it, instead of reading it. What brought this on, you ask? (and if you didn't..humor me - it goes without saying really) I think it's the fact that anything can happen in a piece of art - anything can be created, and anything could be understood. Writing could speak to anyone without actually speaking of anyone.
I want to create something real, that's innately fake.

          He leaned over the edge quickly, glanced down at the dizzying drop, and leaned further. The sharp wind was stinging his eyes, and frost was biting the hands that clung to the railings - still he leaned.
           In that very moment, from far below, he was looking up too. Craning his neck, he squinted against the cold, bright sun; his feet were frozen inside his fraying sneakers, and still he looked - rising ever so slightly on his icy toes.

They say that you cannot be in two places at once, but then again they also once said that the Earth was flat. They are clearly one of those perpetually wrong ones.

At first he could only shift consciousness from one presence to another, but soon he was both men - the one on the top of the tower, and the other on the bottom.

The man on the bottom stopped gaping emptily at the sky; he simply warmed his frozen feet by rushing as far away from that compelling tower as he could go.
          But the man at the top still looked, still leaned, and still hoped against hope that he would fall. He wished he could leave; he wished he could see the sights and smell the scents, but -of course- those were naught but wishful thoughts. There were no bars, no gates, and no barriers, but if he could really go himself, he would have gone all those years ago.

He was both men at once: the prisoner, the wishful thinker, who is trapped by his own ivory tower of perception, and the fugitive who left his soul, his essence, behind.

Thanks for reading! :)