Bare, #prose by A. N. Gretly
Warm trickling raindrops at dusk, sepia filtered sky, bare branches clutching the wind. I find myself thinking of all the eerie things I have done in the past, such strange strange things indeed. I have been a daft old man, with droopy eyes like two black waterholes that gleam, and splotched skin scarred with age and life and love and loss and all these tiny things that build up the utterly complicated structure of the human mind. But now I stand alone, bottom bare in the brisk, brisk dusk, breasts sagging like a stray hound’s after bearing too many pups, and I exhale a whistle toned sigh of mixed emotions, and I try to remember what exactly happened, but I fail to recollect the facts, so I create fantastic stories in my head that I use to make some sort of sense of all these surrealistic patterns. Warm trickling raindrops at dusk, sepia filtered sky, bare branches clutching the wind. And my roots dig deeper into the harsh soil, and my face turns to the heavens as droplets fall on my skin, and I smile an impish smile, engulfed by the moment, embraced by the entire universe, but something wicked creeps from the back of my mind and encroaches my current sensation, and just like that, my brain begins to hum like a radio caught between stations, and my face turns cold, and my eyes tear up, and I feel captivated inside my own flesh, and my chest hurts, and my lungs burn, and my tongue dries up, and I twist and turn, trying to escape this prison of dirt but I fail, I fail and I sense something pulling me down from underneath, and I try to scream, I strive to yell, but to no avail, and so I dive once more into the abyss. Warm trickling raindrops at dusk, sepia filtered sky, bare branches clutching the wind; an old naked tree cradles me to sleep.
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