Always tough to write about something that close to yourself without either A: Alienation of your audience or B: Distancing yourself from the topic when you write about it. Overall solid with some cool imagery. I have the feeling that many would be able to agree that this would not be the preferred way to go. Especially the food/hunger repetition that kinda gnaws on you through the piece.
The river bled into the ocean. I had a lifetime of supplies, or so I thought, and I was right.
I'd filled my deck to bursting with the fruit of fevered memories - the heat of joy, the chills of well-remembered sorrows. I'd packed in and preserved them in songs and poetry, in written words and water-proof recordings. I filled my drums and my barrels with the waters of wisdom - piss-poor decisions and the tears that follow after. Life had left me all too ready to survive.
I would not hunger. I would not thirst. The ocean lay before me and the current led me on.
I had ways to keep myself in health. I burned away the bloat of easy living with the weight of harder habits. The silence of an open day turned to the music of a metamorphosis. When you can't sing, grow. When you can't speak, grow. When you can't breathe? Grow. When you can't think? Grow and grow, because tomorrow is another day. And it is. Another day. Then another.
Eat. Drink. Read. Remember. Always grow. The ocean lay before me and the current led me on.
I had ways to keep my mind in focus. I honed my silver tongue and polished it with wax from honeyed words. I told myself new stories. I made fantasies from memories, with wild flavors you almost wouldn't believe. I told the clouds tales until I wrung loose rain. I told the sun secrets until night fell into my arms. I made seasons turn from too much purple prose and cheap, bruised imagery. Sometimes, after all, purple's a fine color. Sometimes, after all, the cheap blow sticks.
I made a thousand words, new foods to savor, new drinks to sate me. I spoke until I understood.
The only word that didn't work was 'shore'.
The stories rose in wonder, but no climax ever came.
The ocean had never promised me an ending. It just lay before me as the current led me on.
In the end, I didn't drown so much as dive.
See? Sometimes the cheap blow sticks. Or does it?
Prompt: Anonymous asked you:
Write about your biggest fear.
That...wasn't fun to write. Back to the genre July tomorrow!
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins
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