Moving Forward

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A journey of the mind that will take you from the sunset upon a lake to the flames of a roaring fire in the forest. Preferably to be read with headphones, as there is music to accompany your read.

Submitted: December 30, 2015

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Submitted: December 30, 2015

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  Silence

It’s been a rough week, hasn’t it? Perhaps, this room sounds like your own, right now. Perhaps you are listening to music, or the light buzz of an electronic device, or the passing of traffic.
You stand. The spell of dust whirls and spirals. You yawn and stretch, the bones in your spine crack as your muscles tense and relax. Another day…
You can’t really do much - work, or school, has taken you for granted and you can not move.
Wondering - why do you work? To get paid at the end of the day? At what cause, at what cost? I’m becoming a robot, you think. Your days at home upon the weekends are short and barely hold enough hours to recharge. Sometimes you will go out with friends, but not often. Your energy is low like that one lightbulb at work or school, never really at its full brightness, but good enough never to have to change it. You know the one…
You look at the DVD on the table. It’s old, some bits are scratched but it works fine. Recently this DVD was uploaded to the internet for all to hear. A post-it note lies next to it and it reads http://tinyurl.com/8MovingForward.
You open it.
You listen.
You move forward in your mind.

~~SIDE NOTE: Listen to the track on repeat until you finish the section~~

Track 1: Late seaside

It’s a gloomy afternoon and you find yourself upon the shore, upon the sea. The sand is warm, but not too warm. The air is humid, but not too humid. The sea is loud, but not too loud.
You swing your head lightly to the sound of the swashing sea. The sand feels dry beneath your toes, the breath around your face, sharp. Tired eyes set like the sun, but you’re still walking. Not the sound of birds nor the closing seaside shops beside you may allow you to rest. Not right now, at least.
The sea’s tide will be coming nearer, but you will still walk. Hands swinging, not dramatically, not too heavily, just lightly, with the song of the gulls.
Heaving sea water, salty but fresh, chilling at your feet. The sand tries to swallow your toes, but you kick it away. Your ankles are swimming. Your toes are choked a little, putting on a coat of damp, gold sand. The rich smell of pungent salt stabs your nose suddenly, as if reminding you it was here while you were not aware.
You observe the gulls flying, soaring and swerving with the changes in the wind. You reach a place where you can step upon the sea wall and watch, as the waters hit your mid-shin.
The steps slap at your bare feet and the cold of the night’s cobblestone greets you. A shiver quakes up your back, but more a purr of a quake, as if stepping out of a swimming bath. your legs are heavy and tired. You sit and watch as the waves lap upon the wall you sit on.
Your arms move with the slowly moving tide. In. Out. In. Out. Breathing syncs and all you can feel is the sweet dampness of your face as water lightly waves upon the wall and into your cheeks, and the dripping of sandy water from your feet as it hits the ground and makes a silent tack upon the asphalt.
All is well.


Track 2: Deep Forests
 
You will find yourself upon the glaring sky within the deepest forest you know. your tent is rigid, sturdy, but not too rigid, as it moves with the light, slightly chilling, breeze.
Today's night meal sits happily in your stomach as you stare into the distance. You know you are safe.
It is night. Your campfire is awake, barely - near slumbering. It rises little smoke, and the ashes upon the floor reach around the circle of stones almost perfectly. The stones are grey, some darker, some lighter, some even reaching towards blue, or green, or red. The circle isn’t perfect, you have found nothing really is, but you’re satisfied.
The fire burns low and doesn’t growl, but crackles, as if dulling a dab of water. The heart lies a strong yellow pulse, reaching upwards to tones of orange, gold, then to a light red, then to a more mahogany, deep brown-ish red.
The embers reach up, up to the stars, but then - yellow, gold, orange, red, black. They fall.
They will not become one of the millions of stars above. Glittering blue and white above you, the galaxy we call home. The dancing stars shine the ground below, as if fairies lost. Upon the black abyss lies the glistening band of stars you have grown to love. You don’t feel insignificant. You feel upon friends.
A wind picks up and leaves are strewn. One hits your campfire and slowly shrivels and burns. The campfire relishes in this meal, then falls back to lazy dreaming.
Your eyes droop and slow. You are tired.
The owls sing for you. Hoot hoot. Hoot hoot. Your heartbeat follows their mellow tune. Bump bump. Bump bump. Your head sleepily dances along. It’s against the soft grass now; your hands couldn’t keep it up much longer.
Moving blades tickle your cheeks as you pull the cover over yourself. Only noises. Only the hum of owls, the slow purr of a fire, the tiny violin of cricket’s legs, and the sleepy birds, singing lullabies to their young.
You sleep.

Track 3: Rippling Wake

The boat around you s a splinter minefield, alas there is no wood in your fingers. The ripples of the creek upon your side is whispering and laughing, gurgling as you pass.
The lake is flat upon the surface, reaching upwards at the edges, up, up towards the cloudless sky above. It’s late noon, the sun is setting. You find yourself in a glowing yellow, orange, red lake, wavering with the strokes of the paddles.
Your arms should be tired but they aren’t. The paddle hits the water again and you relish i the sound of the water moving beneath you. You don’t feel as if you’re moving - no, just gently floating upon the sea of the sunset.
You see your wake shake the trees and mountain tops, tipped with cloud-like snow, as if plucked from the darkened sky itself. The air is crisp, rasping at you but you’re not cold.
Your boat turns and you see the whitened waters of the creek, leading towards the lake, bubbling. It’s arrival sends ripples through the lake, but not many, and not often. It’s completely still if not for the wash of your boat. Beneath the bubbling turmoil of the creek lie rocks, worn smooth upon the constant moving waters above them, polished to perfectly smooth sides, glinting the golden light from the sun to the tailing end of the trees.
The trees, tall, grand and proud. Upon the lake’s edges to your side, they lie, green, reaching but not far enough to find the glistening heights of the clouds, as do the mountains.
Great green branches echo on the water’s rippling surface, as do the blue peaks of the mountains, grasping upwards to the sky of the boat’s deck. The air is navy now, with a slight tail of red and pink upon the horizon.
The stars reflect for the water’s surface and you see them. Their celestial tales reach you, dance in the water’s waves as they take the earth, upon your eyes, upon your boat’s rippling wake.

Track 4: Snowstorm

It’s been hours and you can’t see the sun. You’ve decided to abandon your car, better moving forward for the last mile than stranded all night, awaiting the sniffer dogs to unearth your metal home.
All beyond is the piercing white of ice and wind, the deep white below you, the deep white above you, the trees and spires of metal lights directing you through the dampened roads.
Some ice hits your eye and leads you to reach from your pocket on the right to shuffle the water out of your socket. Your gloves do nothing - the arctic winds slice through in the milliseconds allowed, going from cold to painful in an instant.
You stop for a moment and catch your breath. Your boots have grown a thick layer of ice underneath. Your feet are cold, but not too cold. Your hands are snug in their blanket of your large, thick coat. You can’t feel your legs, probably for the best. Your trousers are the only part of you not covered thickly to protect from the glowing frigidness in the air.
You aim homewards, you know the street. The houses watch as you continue. Perhaps a 15 minute walk to the front door, alas much more now that the ice had shielded your sight.
Your face is warm with the icy heat. You take a moment to touch it with your palm. It’s almost sinful, the warmth seeping through your glove regains some feeling, but not for long.
Houses begin to shatter upon the path, getting further and far between. Not long now until the embrace of a warm house greets your numb body. Your face is damp with frozen ice, but only the eyes and a little forehead. The remainder is covered with your furry hood, tucked up as far as you could without losing sight of the road.
Your breaths are heavy and damp. Some chilling air seeps through the fur into the cavern your mouth and nose have shared. You can't help but let your jaw quiver.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stop.
You have reached home. You knock. You are greeted inside, but all you can hear is the growl of the snow outside.
All you can hear is the ringing of icicle chimes.

Track 5: Rainy Night

The sun had set a meagre hour ago, and yet outside was pitch black, if not for the lights from the house stabbing the raindrops as they funnelled down the gutter.
The ringing of the chimes stings your ears as you attempt to relax in your chair. The wind is mild.
You watch as the white drops fall by your window, beckoning and willing you into a world of sleep but the chimes haul you to your wake.
Time slows down The echo of the rain drifts and swirls and pats upon the roof above your head. Damp breath chokes you soothingly. The scent of spores lingers deep in the moist air. You breathe in… wait… breathe out.
Your fingers play along to the song of the rain upon your chair. Your eyes are shut but you can see the slow motion drips dropping delicately into dew beyond your window.
Through your hair you can almost feel the water seeping to your scalp, warming up as it goes, matting your head and dripping through the valleys and crevices of the mass of hair on your head, through to fall down your forehead and reach your face, past your eyes and collecting on the tip of your nose, falling off onto your shirt and soaking into the material, leaving a slightly darker patch upon the many already made by many drops. You feel it trickle down your hands, your ears, your arms.
You feel yourself become the water drops. Falling. Falling. Falling.
Drop. You hit the person below and find the crevices to explore on their hair. You fall to gravity, investigating every tiny bit, making the strands cluster together. Suddenly you’re falling again. Falling. Falling upon the endless black void of the night. Cold concrete rushes to meet you.
You are the wind now, bristling the chimes, making them sing a song of piercing jingle.
You are now you. You sit. You drift. You are the rain.

Track 6: Tranquil sleep

Breathe in. . . Breathe out. . . Breathe in. . . Breathe out. . .
You find yourself in a comfortable position, every 3 seconds breathing in, and every 5, breathing out. You are awake.
You see yourself as an entity. Living. Breathing. You see yourself as the physical works around you,
You see yourself as the oceans, rushing to greet the people upon the shores, paying respect to the rivers which add to your body. You see yourself as the trees, the tall, reaching trees lurching towards the sun, but clasping to the soil as hard as they can. You see yourself as the mountains, climbing high above the clouds, above all else, collecting snow and housing animals and plants alike. You are the clouds, seeing all, watching the world go by below them. You are the snow, chilling and pure, housing only the strongest. You are the sand, warm and fluid, housing only the most adapt. You are the world. You are strong.
You see yourselves as the minds of many.
You are the mind of a lion, seeking your prey upon the plains of the savannah, the perfect meal for hungry mouths, the perfect time to strike. You are the arctic hare upon a frozen wasteland, your food is buried but you can hear the mites feeding on greens under an inch of ice, you follow and strike. You are the sloth in the tropics, slow, steady breaths, movements and thoughts, you will live, no matter how slow you have to take it. You are the fellow British bobtail housecat, cleaning one paw and swiping it upon your mane, feeling the hair between your tongue bristles, and the dampness upon your head fur.
You see yourself as the soul upon the life of every organism, from the weak pulse of the bacterium to the beating stampede of a hundred buffalo. Upon every life on Earth, you have a part of their soul in you. You are stardust.
Breathe in. . . Breathe out. . . Breathe in. . . Breathe out. . .

Track 7: Christmas Night

Midnight approaches and your heart races. You can’t lie down and rest your eyes, the jingle of sleigh bells calls for you.
Tomorrow you will be with your entire family, your mom, dad, grandmas and grandpas, and your dearest cousins and aunty and uncle, all upon the tree and with presents in hands.
The surroundings are new, this isn’t your house. You want to explore. You can’t leave your rom. You sleep with your noisy older cousins and baby sister who sleeps like a rock. You can’t sleep, though, you can’t miss this magical encounter!
You try and try and try to close your eyes but you aren’t sure whether it’s the loud rumble of a snore your cousin is making or the hope of meeting Santa this year.
Nearly midnight and your head hits the pillow. Your heart pounds and fills with thoughts of sugar plumbs and tomorrow’s celebrations.
You can nearly smell the wafts of christmas dinner from the kitchen, the piles of turkey upon the middle, surrounded by all the trimmings: a colourful spread of vegetables, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing and pigs in blankets. Your mouth waters just imagining this delectable spread. You imagine as your stomach fills, the annual christmas pudding rises to the table and your stomach is now empty. You always think the pudding is underwhelming, but it’s Christmas, who cares?
Midnight and nothing happens. You sigh and peer out the window at the empty sky.
Tomorrow will come and Santa hasn’t come. Have we just been bad? Maybe it was that one time you accidentally caused your baby sister to slip and fall when trying to walk, but you said sorry… You think and think as your head hits the pillow.
Then you hear the sleigh bells sing.

Track 8: Spring Creek

Upon the treetops lie may bird’s nests - bundles of sticks and twigs in a ball. You can hear the song of them as they sing out for their mothers and fathers for food.
The bristling leaves of trees murmur to the creek trickling through the middle of the deep green forest, thanking it for its deep nurturing to the many animals which wander through the paths.
Distant lullabies of chimes echo through the forest from a settlement upon the edges. The trees are undisturbed as the slight breeze knocks them to and fro.
Water bubbles white as it sooths the rocks below to a smooth slate, gargling and scorching the world above with golden sunlight reflections. It dampens the soil nearby with splashed vapor rocks have kicked upwards. Upon the edges, many small weeds and other flowers, blossoming in the spring sun.
Some birds swoop to greet you, pecking at the ground absent-mindedly and picking out a worm blindly but expertly from the grass and flying to a treetop. The baby birds quiet shortly after.
You breathe in the adamant smell of fresh air, the curliness of a warm, slightly humid evening. The damp and nutty smell of the spores of damp ground near the creek, the pine-filled atmosphere of the large trees, some reaching down for you, some reaching high, tall into the air to reach the sun. The bark seeps the warm smell of the creek’s spores.

You breathe in the world around you.
Just last season in the houses near you a child watched as Santa pulled his sleigh through the night.
Just earlier today a young adult meditated in their room.
Just a few weeks ago terrible news of someone trapped upon the snowstorm upon the mountains outside the forest.
Upon the end of the creek’s flow there’s a boat circling as someone daydreams.
The dampness now evaporated caused someone to fall asleep in their chair in the village near to where you stand.
The creek leads to a river, and upon its far side lies a seaside where someone once walked up while taking in the rising tide.
Within the clutches of this forest, someone watched the sunset and the stars rise.

Those were all you.

But here you are. In your house, listening to the final soundtrack.

Where do you go from here?
You move forward upon this world.


© Copyright 2018 Marcellinos. All rights reserved.

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