Thursday, April 12, 2012

A True Story

        "I wanna be there with you right now."
        " . . .You are. Wherever I go." 
                                                 --A conversation from long ago.

It was still nearly dark out when he stepped out of the building. Newly freed he was, from the worst place on not just the face of the earth, but anything beneath the crust as well. Right down to the core where burning hot magma and lava and fire and energy surged and stirred.

He finished what was left of his bottle of water, smoked half a cigarette in the parking lot and hoped inside Tron. He drove his noble "program" with all four windows down, taking his hair band out letting his very lengthy strands wave about in the 60 mile an hour wind.

Coming up on his place of peace he swung inside it. Under the canopy of trees and the hallway of bushes and plants and flowers, the gentleman navigated himself to one of two of his favorited locations. Locations of outside Floridian foliage. He parked across three spots at the very end of the massively long parking lot.

Getting out in only a black wifebeater, boots and work pants he stretched his arms to the chirp of the birds as one flew by him, only to gracefully land on a dime on a tree branch above his head. He ran his dirty fingers through his Thor-length hair as he noticed the sun poking it's way over the water. Just down below by about 100 feet was the lake both of his spots sat off. Though this part of it was the more jungle like setting. Forgoing the tropical water based local he had been frequenting.

African, almost. With huge sprawling green grounds, thick bush at the bottom, and rolling hills with trees lining. A Serengeti. He trudged with his boots on the grass and saw though his sunglasses as the morning excepted him into it's company. . . And something started to come over him. . .

The hole in him was filling--quickly. His spirit opening itself up to the heavenly drink that was being poured into him he took to it and removed his sunglasses, using his naked eye to see his wonderful world.

And with every step, he took another, more quickly. And another, even more quickly.

And soon before soon he was running. Really running. His arms moving like turbines powered by the crisp and biting jungle air with his legs pounding mercilessly onto the landscape like he was really there, on the Serengeti stalking and sprinting. Chasing.

Hunting. He was a predator. He was fierce, he was bold, he was not to be reckoned with.

Running with a focus on his face he felt his hair bounced and flew back like a cape and he was grateful for the natural high he was being given.

Impossibly fast! He was approaching brake-neck speed. A force of power that was something he had long ago used often but now had such scare opportunities to employ. His limbs all four moving like the damned dickens, the gentleman was giving the land all he had inside him.

He knew things wouldn't always be so kind, so comforting, so soft and freeing; such as the feeling of running through the fake African landscape by the waterline, orange ball of light begging to burst onto the horizon. But right then, in that moment, he was happy, he content. . . He was perfect. All of him was there on wet grass in the wispy air. Spreading his arms he embraced a zephyr rushing over him as it washed him in an rush of atmospheric energy. His surroundings were speaking to him, singing their lovely songs of bliss. And the gentleman eagerly lent them his ears.

Everything in him was there, was okay, was whole. . . All except one thing of course.

He stopped at the top of the rise, before the land really started to slope down to the bushes, and then to the water beyond with the sun now poking it's head out to say hello. Regulating his breath he scanned the area, rife with joy, with quiet energy and thankfulness for his gift he had just been given.

With a small smile on his face as the cool morning wind swept over him, he sincerely thought the only thought to himself that had domineered all the other thoughts he had been thinking for weeks upon weeks.

"Talk to me. . . Please. . ."

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