hattrick30
It was all a dream. The steady stream of rain led the the smiles of the entire town. Miraculous was an understatement, but seemed enough to justify the feeling of sacred life that the people of that small desert town needed.
A large white tent hung above and dripped and drenched muddy ground with rain water. The bear tamer inside walked to his dresser followed by his cub who had been begging him for a treat of rabbit meat. Drawing the dresser drawer, he took out many pieces of paper and a quill pen, his treasured items he received upon visiting a spanish market across the Atlantic sea on a voyage to the New World. On his paper, he began to predict the future. The loneliness of a distant village, where the birds sang and no one has yet grown old, where war will soon ravage within a generation and love has never been stronger or more abused, and where there will be no trace of the founding family on the face of the earth for they will suffer a profound solitude from a cruel world and their absent trace will go unnoticed.
In the jungle heat, under a canopy of trees and singing chorus of noises surrounding him, he sat wondering if what he was doing was going to mean something. Whether the revolution he would probably die for would honor him for his actions. Or did that matter? Was he truly loved? would he be remembered at all. He didn't know any of the answers. All he knew was that imperialism made no distinction with their predatory money hungry practices that killed his people. His love for his people, his family, and his country motivated him to fight, not the hate for a sick people.
Running was a prayer. Much like the physical and spiritual endurance only prayers could heal in a sweat lodge and in life, his legs carried him farther than his heart could alone and he chanted and sang over red sand, the blood of giants cut from his ancestor twin brothers. He prayed for his family first, those at home cooking dinner, doing homework, working on the yard outside. Then his friends, those who carried him from battles, from desperate feelings of hate and anger, from parties, and carried him out of love. Many times they didn't know they were carrying him. He ran for love. Love for his people, love for his friends and family, love for those whose hearts aren't strong enough.
Down an empty stairway to the riverbed was a place where he thought, brought his lovers, his friend, but its where he grew an idea. He wanted revolution.
The stairway is where he got dressed. Like always he had to leave in the night, because he wasn't fully welcome. The stars looked at him with pity, but also a love that meant they would always walk with him home down an unlit path.
At the moment, his worktable was the kitchen table, and his bench was one of the chairs next to him as he bent hard over the newly painted red mailbox. It was a gift. He would hide a couple more gifts inside and lift the flag. Happy birthday mom.
His head felt like an overcrowded room, filled with an anxious and meddling mess of people who have accumulated over time from everyone you wish you had never met. He hated this, he hated her, he hated everyone, especially himself. Maybe it was only himself who he hated. Maybe it was the gold ring band on his finger, which constricted the flow of blood from his finger to his heart.
All that glitters isn't gold was written on the door of her room. He decided not to knock and turned away. He could hear a silent waltz fly through his head, that filled the empty room of his apartment, and that carried on like particles of sand past the window and into the night sky and joined the stars in their empty glow.
Drenched form head to toe, the man sat on his porch, watching the rain travel and drape across the sand landscape. The mesa looked lonely out in the distance. His dog walked up to his chain and placed his head in his lap and whined a bit for food.
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