dorlan the tree

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
distortion of time.

Submitted: August 19, 2016

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Submitted: August 19, 2016



Dorlan has never thought of walking this long in his life. But dear Dorlan here resembling somewhat of a wounded man trudges himself through the harshest challenge nature can ever offer to a mankind. Dorlan is not a naturalist, and certainly not a philosopher. He is merely a poor boy who happened to catch himself wandering in his own realm of time and miss his stop.


Dorlan doesn’t like to walk, especially not during this season when the sun would so affectionately imprint his humidity into the already imbibed air creating so strong a friction to slow everything down. This pseudo-natural phenomenon rather annoys Dorlan in the most pleasant way that reminds him of his breathe and his blurring sight. Hating to pay more respect to this childish act, Dorlan starts to admire how the end of the road winding and twisting harmoniously to the end of the horizon. His mind cannot help to embrace itself into a hysterical series of wined air-tasting. He has once again caught in his own antiquated romance. He starts to imagine himself being a tree – not just any tree, but a tree unaware of his destined death and the sense of time since the blossom of all mundaneness.


The dull virtue of a tree never bores him, no, he has never been more pleased. The layered houses and unearthed mysteries around him vanished into only more wonders – vastness amongst vastness, an land of unearthed fruits and gold, and he only is a tree amongst others, only an observer of time. This idea amuses Dorlan, he soon loses both his direction as to his destination and the intention of finding it.


But how would a tree see the world? Dorlan starts to religiously compose his limbs into a tango, making the paradox with his tree persona more amusing. He can almost feel the half of his roots sunk by some underground rain, and the other half screeching in the dry, sweaty sand. His body feels both a strangler and a host for his soul and his wrongdoing. This bizarre unbalance boggles and entertains his mind by the charm of nature, it itches Dorlan where he can’t charm and yet his heart bleeds. But Dorlan loves this new feeling with an indifferent manner. Galvanized, Dorlan feels the livings making the poorest and the best effort of worshipping him. Ants or worms crawling beneath his soil send tickling pulses of pornographic pleasure to his roots, then his branches, and finally his trunk. He had never been so grateful to an lump of insects. So much so he starts crying. Oh poor boy, it seems like he has been there for ages.


It didn’t take long for Dorlan to realize this absurdity of this blue and the more hilarious paradox beyond, but only resulting in his further appreciation towards this practice. He starts picturing himself as the centre of gravity, the centre of everything, a thought so endearing he can laugh with all his remaining energy. He dances for his awful theory, but his motion can only be so projected as an old Chinese silhouette show with all the audience prematurely escaped for either the outstanding skill of the performer or simply how skeletal and wrung all these postures are. But Dorlan doesn’t care much about his look, he can’t see himself without a mirror anyways.


Dorlan starts to notice the blocked traffic. Isn’t that such a wonderful view? he thinks to himself. Yes, it is like watching the grandest sunset. All the cars gathered from every place in the town only to present Dorlan his deserved show of light and singing siren. How considerate these people are! But Dorlan seems not to be moved by the ingenuity of his guests, instead, he starts to appreciate the never-changing demeanor or facial language of his uninvited but delightful creatures. It appears that the sound and the air and everything stops for Dorlan, and he is the one capable of supervising everything in the cosmos. This evolving theory of space and time suddenly wraps around him and devours him into a fluctuating wave of uncertainties. For once, Dorlan feels lost in both space and time and all senses. He thinks it is Christmas, for he sees a well-decorated, color-confused Christmas tree lying on the face of the earth extending all the way to the end of the milky way. But there it is right in front of him. Of course, to avoid the same awkwardness, he holds him back from busting into tears.


When he finally recovered from his little rendezvous with himself, he was right there at the door of his home. He didn’t know how long he has been standing there. It was a small house, but well-decorated. its inner would dazzle over any architectural creation for its intricacy and structural superiority which only reflected on a more loving creator. The iron-rusted air at his garage door created the veil of mystery and homecoming so familiar and exhilarating his heart started pumping with all its might. He couldn’t wait to enter the door to give his beloved his all.


The air grew thicker with every step Dorlan had made. He enjoyed this dampness in all this atmosphere, it was his duvet to accompany his worst nightmares.


He would expect a surprise so daring by his lady. She had sure painted the whole house red, although the light was so dim he couldn’t make a more careful compliment to the accuracy of her work. Nor did he expect she would lie perfectly intact and still on the carpet herself. She may be asleep, which explains the subdued illuminants. Still, effortlessly, her beauty froze time with such remark that placed Dorlan into a dilemma for he should or not destroy this perfect serenity - he could not tell if she is merely tricking him into another one of her jaw-dropping magic shows.


To Dorlan, his time was merely a distortion of reasons to convince himself his hunger towards her love. For her, Dorlan could only wait so long, or else it meant death to this poor chained animal. Dorlan missed her so much, too much. So he rushed onto the carpet, a carpet never so acquainted with such perfect saturation of beautiful blended pigments that painted the whole house. As so, every step of his would make a splash so little but powerful enough to disrupt this perfect space of tranquility and absolute quietness in this time frame. But it didn’t stop Dorlan. In fact, it needed him. It could not be so perfected without Dorlan stepping into this very own canvas of madness. What picturesque and compelling masterpiece by the greatest painter ever lived!


Dorlan couldn’t keep himself a good boy. His love and passion had grown so dear and deep for this charming canary that the beast was himself. He quickly loosened himself into this sanguine pleasure poetized by the more hued surroundings. He kissed his love everywhere on her body with terrifying enthusiasm and commitment, a hyena grotesquely luxuriating in every fibre of his precious tenderness that he had scavenged across the enormity of the universe, pleased, satisfied, and intimated by his own mouth’s locomotion.


Then it poured the most glamorous and courageous firework into vanity and prejudice, crimson into more crimson, red into more red, love into more love. The very perfectly-toned, sunlit stain of misery and youth blossomed into the air. It had become undistinguishable, Dorlan or the air or her, for all the affection whispered and permeated into the atmosphere and every single atom in this specific instance. He adored every second of it; every drop of it seemed so awarding to his unalienable amour. Youth, love, death, the so escaping and the eternity, he created this picture with colorants of paradoxical wonders so alluring that they are sheer agonizing eyesores for any naturalist or mathematician, and he is proud of it.


For when it was over, he got to stay forever with his love. They can splash their everlasting emulsion of devotion to celebrate the days beyond. Dorlan can blithely picture himself smiling at a sunset so adorned that it can only be perfumed by her presence. 

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