09-27-2020, 08:10 PM
GULLIVER
Gulliver travels with a placid grin. It appears as a permanent fixture on his otherwise unremarkable face.
Even with the things he hears -- the anger, the sadness, the impenetrable and unshakeable grief -- the grin remains. Warm, inviting. He is a kind thing, this boy who is no longer a boy. This boy who is no longer a boy but who still carries the comforting embrace of the vines that climb up his legs and stretch along the column of his spine. This boy who is no longer a boy but who still keeps ferns tangled up in his hair. He is no longer a boy, but he is unwilling to let go of these boyish habits.
He ambles through the meadow, where the grasses bend toward him, as if reaching for him. And he passes his mouth through and around them, sighing softly. And grinning still. Always grinning.
How remarkable it is to be so at peace despite the chaos around him. He can hear them all, their fears and their worries and, occasionally, their joys. He is troubled by the negativity, but he does not know how to remedy it. He is just a boy, even if he is not a boy anymore. He does not have the answers that they need. The most he can offer is a spray of baby’s breath at their feet, like this will make them smile. Like this will help in any way.
He moves to the dappled shade of a large tree, parks himself under it, tenderly touches its bark with his mouth. He loves this tree the same way he loves the rest of his plants. The same way he loves the vines that stretch and curl and the ferns tangled in his hair, dripping down his face from where they cling to his forelock.
He waits and he listens. And he grins that placid, placid grin.
Even with the things he hears -- the anger, the sadness, the impenetrable and unshakeable grief -- the grin remains. Warm, inviting. He is a kind thing, this boy who is no longer a boy. This boy who is no longer a boy but who still carries the comforting embrace of the vines that climb up his legs and stretch along the column of his spine. This boy who is no longer a boy but who still keeps ferns tangled up in his hair. He is no longer a boy, but he is unwilling to let go of these boyish habits.
He ambles through the meadow, where the grasses bend toward him, as if reaching for him. And he passes his mouth through and around them, sighing softly. And grinning still. Always grinning.
How remarkable it is to be so at peace despite the chaos around him. He can hear them all, their fears and their worries and, occasionally, their joys. He is troubled by the negativity, but he does not know how to remedy it. He is just a boy, even if he is not a boy anymore. He does not have the answers that they need. The most he can offer is a spray of baby’s breath at their feet, like this will make them smile. Like this will help in any way.
He moves to the dappled shade of a large tree, parks himself under it, tenderly touches its bark with his mouth. He loves this tree the same way he loves the rest of his plants. The same way he loves the vines that stretch and curl and the ferns tangled in his hair, dripping down his face from where they cling to his forelock.
He waits and he listens. And he grins that placid, placid grin.
i will be waiting for you on the other side of the frozen pines
i'm gonna find a way through, there's another light beyond the lie
i'm gonna find a way through, there's another light beyond the lie