shofly12
He watched the insect crawl up the sides of the wall. Against gravity, against the wind it crawled. Where was it going? DId it know for what it embarked on this dangerous journey?
He sat on the floor, pulling his old things out of the closet. And there was the trophy. In his hands, it never seemed to lose its former glory. But there was a twinge of regret, staring at the trophy. A twinge of longing for days that would never return.
He leaned against the, cigarette held in between his fingers. The smell reminded him of those time that he couldn't return to. Somewhere in the smoke, there was laughter and love.
Antlers are fuzzy, I noticed as I walked into his house. It was quite an odd house. Filled to the brim with dead eyes that stared out as guests walked through the front door. Unnerving really.
He stood in the corner. Surrounded by walls, he felt secure. No hands would come from out of the wall to push him sprawling into the hallways. From the walls, no voices would rise, piercing his skin. No. With the corner, he felt secure.
And interestingly, nobody ever saw him there.
There was that part of him, the part that wanted to forget. But no matter how long he spent at night, staring up at the turning lights and the spinning world, he couldn't leave those parts of him behind. Some times, he would pace up and down the rooms at night.
He sat painting the pictures. The colors and the thoughts flowed freely. He lived inside each one. They were all his creation, yet in many ways, he was the one being created. He was part of the cottages at the sea and the trees in the air. He was there, and everywhere. And yet he was god, painting the whole scene