There is a time when one gives up. Admits defeat.
You stand in the middle of a square and you take your armour off. Leave your sword on the ground and take off your helmet. A layer of powdery brown coating the old grey.
Your hair matted with mud and sweat comes rolling down your neck but stops right before it reaches the back, and sticks to the grime on your skin. You cringe from the mud on your cheek-eating into the scars.
You have the sun in your eyes and you blink very fast to avoid the inevitable. And then your tongue licks off the blood from the corner of your lips.
You are blinking very fast. You think it's the dust and you squint and look for the person you were fighting-with, against, for.
Only it isnt a person anymore- only a patch. A charcoal sketch of a person with a curtain of dust between your shadows. The shadows get longer and your knees fail you.
Your nose hits the dust and you bleed in drops. Maroon circles on dry brown.
You would cry but the salt would sting your wounds, the winds would drown your sobs. You remember your mother's voice and stories of phoenixes and fires.
You lie there under a blanket of dust-sticking to every bit of body you have. The sun burning lines down your back. You put your shield down. And let out that last ounce of wind in you. The fight's kisses shine bright on your neck and shoulders and they burn in the sun. You force out a sigh as they begin to prick while the maroons become one with the brown.
The time would be apt for a soundtrack to cue in-violins with strings fuming against the furtive brushing of the bow, bass drums erupting with blows interjected by the soft mocking of an oboe. But nothing plays and nothing moves. This isn't your matinee dose of the improbable.
This is you. Bare bodied, bruised, bent.
The wind has stopped. The fight is over.
You stand in the middle of a square and you take your armour off. Leave your sword on the ground and take off your helmet. A layer of powdery brown coating the old grey.
Your hair matted with mud and sweat comes rolling down your neck but stops right before it reaches the back, and sticks to the grime on your skin. You cringe from the mud on your cheek-eating into the scars.
You have the sun in your eyes and you blink very fast to avoid the inevitable. And then your tongue licks off the blood from the corner of your lips.
You are blinking very fast. You think it's the dust and you squint and look for the person you were fighting-with, against, for.
Only it isnt a person anymore- only a patch. A charcoal sketch of a person with a curtain of dust between your shadows. The shadows get longer and your knees fail you.
Your nose hits the dust and you bleed in drops. Maroon circles on dry brown.
You would cry but the salt would sting your wounds, the winds would drown your sobs. You remember your mother's voice and stories of phoenixes and fires.
You lie there under a blanket of dust-sticking to every bit of body you have. The sun burning lines down your back. You put your shield down. And let out that last ounce of wind in you. The fight's kisses shine bright on your neck and shoulders and they burn in the sun. You force out a sigh as they begin to prick while the maroons become one with the brown.
The time would be apt for a soundtrack to cue in-violins with strings fuming against the furtive brushing of the bow, bass drums erupting with blows interjected by the soft mocking of an oboe. But nothing plays and nothing moves. This isn't your matinee dose of the improbable.
This is you. Bare bodied, bruised, bent.
The wind has stopped. The fight is over.
5 comments:
Beautiful, Bedatri! I needed to read this.
Trite as it sounds - been there, written that. Not as hauntingly as this, but roughly thereabouts.
Know one thing: if you are at a place which lets you write, no matter how lonely it gets, it is a beautiful place to be in. A bittersweet beauty maybe, but beauty nonetheless.
Thank you for posting this. It was beautiful to read
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