Follow Me

air on strings

  waking up to feel the boiling hot regret on your tongue, but maybe it's only the aftertaste. his most sickly, sweetened demise story. bewilderment was the first success. crossing that bridge into unknown territory, it was twenty-thirteen, and he was young, naive, willing, capable. this is his story. this is not his story. this is rubble. this is real. this is fake. this is a serpent's tongue down the throat. this is a story in first person. this is a story in third person. it was two thousand nine, and he was just having fun. he wanted to create. he created. it was twenty-eleven, and he was just having fun. he wanted to create. he created. it was twenty-thirteen, and he was young. and he was young. the first bridge was no longer. for, it was but nothing. that was its concept; absence. isolation. he was isolated. the bridge promised friendship. it promised happiness. it failed to deliver. he left, and that was that.

beyond the bridge. beyond it there was a man who awaited his arrival. the man never saw the boy. only the shadow of another man. he was tall. he had lanky proportions. he had shaggy brown hair, colour could barely be made out. but he was there, in the boy's place. the two left. but then it was twenty-fourteen, he was back. amidst september, he returned. he thought he had incorrectly performed the "ritual" to gain these things. he retubrned. he returned. and that was the lick of freedom and simultaneous encapsulation that led him here. he thought. he thought maybe, maybe. he must go further down the tulgey wood trail. maybe. but there he went, happily, down the path. and that was when he encountered the man. and the man, darkened, looked back, to see both a man and a boy simultaneously. he looked, and looked, but could not tell the two apart. they were much the same. he had shifted into this form. they talked, and talked, with no man offering the other any true thought on this happening. he was allowed to pass.

the second bridge was soon to come