It isn't any wonder that as time escapes the duldrums of another unremarkable day the young mans life is practically snuffed. At least it could have been on a day that may have had some significance but because it didn't he was afraid that his death wouldn't have an impact or deep meaning or any meaning at all.
He felt it was his legacy to leave a trail leading to his life's past, in a blaze a crescendo of import, a culmination that had impact like running head long into the shoulder of a wild boar. That way whenever anyone were to come a crossed his book even by happenstance they'd recognize the subject that this man who was fabled, now legend, is recognized and revered and private accolades of greatfulness and the security of being belongs to this man. The man that had the intention of foresight to reach into everyone future from the past and make future generations secure.
Or.....
he thought that perhaps just a parable, an example of what one shouldn't do or what one shouldn't become, reduced to a bad example he thought. Who better to say "I don't know how my life will unfold" than the author of hisself. He rationalized his existence by paradoxical equivalence.
It wasn't meant to be if you consider fate as barometer. You could have used a thermometer to make the tepid gauge and it wouldn't have made a bit of difference, it was frozen over.
It was way too cold of a life to leave a memorial of remembrance. All that he had to leave as a true testimony to his life was pain and strife. Sure it was possible to make the long journey in his mind back to his childhood but that was a path better left untraveled because it was acutely abrupt. The days of adolescence are better remember from a gray haired person who lavishes contently and regales of childhood fondness and not in quick anadotes that get left behind . It came to a screaming halt as if your stomach takes leave as you plunge in descent from the what once was a brief peek of the horizon when ascending in a roller coaster. One minute it is the euphoria of possibilities filled with plans of prideful youth and the next, a flash of lightening with all the thunder god had to scream in the unprotected ones ear of being lost in a nightmare with recognition. The flashes of better times always skipped passed way too soon, leading nowhere, but everywhere where he was just a child in the vastness of being alone.
He was the catch of the day not knowing as he strayed from the village. His mother was his charge. He was too young to venture with the men of the village and had to go with the women of the village to collect berries, and other essential food stuffs that didn't require the cunning of a mans temperament. He didn't own the skills that a man double his age had. He was a liability to the hunters quest. A boy his age didn't know what it was to creep silently through the tall grass without bending a blade of grass only to trap the four legged prize in their mind as they were swiftly brought down with an arrow or spear. All in due time... He would learn the finer skill as all the young boys who earned their place in the hierarchy of the village. Some day he will be plucked from his place he held with the women, to begin his journey of puberties cracked voice that is sullen and commanding. He will someday be an apprentice and learn to command the wilds as a magician learns his craft.
But the time came not as it was written to be, but it was a clock that the tick never reached the tone. The time that he waited for with all the patience of a lion on the hunt for the gazelle, was like a clock that never struck the tune that tells us it is a new day.
It was a memory that was better if that is a word to describe the wretched memories left alone by itself. With only one person which was him that tried his best to leaved packed along the trail that led to no where because he knew he would never be found by his mother or his father or the rest of the honorable men of his village, no matter how far they would search for him or how wide they cast the net. The journey was far, it was so far that the stars that he was used to greeting as his guide amongst the shrubs in the forest were now constellations that were facing directions that led him into the wretched abyss.
He could hear the creeping of the ships bones. People moaning in agony and although he's never heard these sounds of despair as uttered by people, it isnt really a sound it is more of an emotion that comes from deep within and escapes to your lips. It's a quiver like a plucked string or the deep bottom of a drum resonating so he lay shackled making some sort of sense of the reality that was miles beyond his own comprehension .
Remember he is just a child of the village, never having mastered the language bereft of the succinctly tuned emotional control. A mere child where one day equates to a unquatuzable infinity.
Where is my comfort that is always in abundance. Why am I not able to grasp the wings of the clouds and sleep until I'm awakened. Drifting to sleep was impossible until he awoke to the dark, putride stench of his own feces that he accidentwlly released when he was hiding from the group of men who refused to relent in their chase of him. Why didn't they let him win the race and ruffle his head. But instead they were serious and he could smell the dangerous opium that they trailed them as they smoked from their pipes. He could hear in the hull of the dark ship cry's from the women mixed with the sloppy commands given to them by the drugged and dazed hunters.
It's was not time that lay in wonderment but he was a child who operated from instinct and not of purpose I suppose. Self control was limited to the point that his parents were the ones who controlled where he hadn't gained control. What was he to do he thought to himself, there is no comfort or solace, there is no mommies sweet breath or fathers stern protection. Nothing not now, and not ever and it would take him what amounted to a lifetime to learn the hardest of all lessons: but he will eventually learn that his past will never exist and the only past that he eventually owned was one that he didn't want and one he couldn't give away.
YOU ARE READING
Dreams Deffered
Historical FictionA life that should be lived but a life that was labored
