Here is where I’ll add to writings I’ve done outside of blogging that I feel like sharing.
Away from her life
She was sent from her loved one
No solitude here
That bottle was huge
Tipsy’s just the start of
The wide, empty night
She could as much run
from her fate than from death
She could as much keep from falling
than sprint when tripped
and with a final breath
from all that she knew, all that she loved
Was this life not enough?
She held up her dress, so as to avoid
by some taunting cliche
Would this be the day
that she slid to her knees?
Then a smile caught her lips, as she wondered
Was all this really worth it?
She had a wonderful life, a wonderful home
What was she running from?
A life, a love, an innocence complete?
What was wrong with her?
When would she ever stop
As I breathe in, the crisp air cuts through my nose and goes straight to my chest. I breathe in, deeply, feeling the swell of life fill me, intoxicate me. I look around. The trees and the mountains, the beauty of nature. I’m grounded on the solid rocky ground, yet this place makes me feel like I’m floating in air.
This is the beauty of the world. This is what we should aspire to. The clean air on my tongue is so rich, and I’m connected to the ground again. I can smell the strong tang of pine and the soft iciness of snow. I can hear nothing but the gentle whoosh of the breeze and the dull thud of my heart beat.
His eyes were piercing like they could see what you were thinking even with the laziest gestures. To a weak man, they were mesmerising. He was an old man, but attractive for his age. His hair was grey throughout, but looked strong, as though he would never be be a victim of baldness. His features were wrinkled, but the wrinkles were slight, making him look younger. But it was his eyes which I first noticed.
I was sitting in the cafe as I usually did in the morning; I didn’t start work until ten, so this was my morning routine, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Always at the same table, always drinking the same order of coffee.
I had just finished reading an article on page four, and was drinking my coffee as usual, when I looked up and saw him staring straight at me. He was drinking a cappucino as he studied me. But his eyes pierced through me and it was very awkward, yet I was afraid to turn away. It became a stare-down, and he was winning. But I continued to stare, just as he was, and those eyes had me hypnotised.
I said before that a weak man would have been taken in by those eyes. Well, I was never proud of it, but I was a weak man.
I tried my best to keep a straight face, keep it serious, keep it passive. But I was a failure at that, too. There were cracks, I was melting. Finally, I looked down.
It was over; it had to be. Focusing intently on the table in front of me, determined not to look up, I drank my coffee. I had to finish it. I forgot all about my newspaper. In the end, I could not resist, though; I could feel his gaze on me, I hated not knowing, and it was just as awkward not to look at him.
He was still staring. He didn’t look as though he’d looked away at all. Why was he still staring?
Again, I was taken in by those eyes, but this time they were more resistible, and I felt stronger knowing I had resisted them once before. But I just didn’t feel comfortable anymore, knowing I’d just embarrass myself if I stayed. Casually, I was able to look down again.
As soon as I did, I was gathering my things up: I had to get out of here. I slung my shoulder bag over my right shoulder, grabbed the newspaper and held it under my left arm, all the while holding my coffee in my right hand.
He caught me down the street. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he said in his low, drawling voice, and I stared at his nose. “It’s just that you look familiar to me somehow…”
I looked up into his eyes, startled. “I don’t know who you are,” I answered.
“My mistake,” he said, and I looked back down at his nose. “Yes, I’m afraid I do have a rather large nose, I’m afraid, but –” I looked up at him, “– I don’t suppose you might tell me who you are? An adventurer, perhaps?”
“God, no,” I said, “only when my nose is buried in a book.” I laughed nervously at my own joke.
He laughed along politely. “Come back into the coffee shop with me,” he said. “I feel like we should talk.”
Unsure, I followed him back to my table.