"inactivity" poems
Drowning in a cesspool of wishes
Destiny swims no farther than fishes.
Diligence seduces the tide,
She elopes, makes her a bride.
The singing bird sings,
The humming bee stings.
Inactivity kills the sweet dreamer but
Also exalts not the lazy ****
Puff your blunt, roll up your sleeves
Kiss your tools, empty your sheaths
Pray your hands grind the right mill,
Your hustle will have you chill.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
I am at the fire as I would likely be, come the chill
hours of inactivity, having gathered up the dead
detritus from the yard and put to match some old
wood rested on it. The lifeless pile took flame
with greed, as if surprised by need of it,
and gratefully gave itself to be consumed by fire.
For a time the world is all ablaze, all red
and yellow hot upon my face, flush with pregnant
sparks giving birth to ever greater iterations of fire.
Then I think let it all burn, all that is useless;
let it burn, all that is cast off and idle; in my mind
an eternal flame, even as the wood before my eyes
melts to ash and climbs to heaven on a pillar
of smoke. Ash settles down to earth with me,
ash in the air darting through shadows, bitter
on the tongue, gray in the hair. The universe
is cold; the space between the stars blank.
The bodies of the universe are all ash.
As long as there is flame I stay with it. I inch
closer as the cold elbows in, jealous of my place.
I stir. Chars catch a breath and come to light,
soon fading, embers weary of their work, blinking
heavy eyed, nodding off to sleep. When at length
all that can burn has burned, refined to its last
remains, glowing scarlet crystal, intensity wanting fuel
denied, I leave it to its vultures, satisfied
all becomes at last what does endure.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
I am a sunflower
I am not a rose -- the bloom of the rose does not need to proclaim itself loudly to the world -- its very perfume is the witness of its own sweetness.
I was a psychiatric patient for awhile. This long period of enforced inactivity induced in me a love of reading which stood me in good stead.
It made the inner life of thought and imagination intensely real to me at a very early stage.
This used to absorb my attention so much, when a book was in my hand, that I became almost oblivious to what was going on around me.
During these early days of rapid mental growth, a glorious treasure-trove suddenly opened up to me (like a flower) a whole new world of fantasy and gave me its right of entrance into fresh realms of thought. My heart feel victim to my past lovers like the drug you were supposed to leave alone for awhile cigarettes became my only companions ; Lielanie too she helped with a sunflower like conversations I was enlightened and now I must grow again for my roots are starting to rot once again - my twitter followers and friends are the reason why I'm alive for I could vent and you; subliminally listen Thank You.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
It used to be my parents when I would fall.
Lacking the strength or knowledge to stand on my own,
they would lead me
teach me
support this insecure child.
I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
A shot of ******* another sip of alcohol.
Liquid courage to face the day,
flexing my beer muscles for the ladies
my true self atrophied from years of inactivity.
I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
With my crutches gone, it's time for me to stand tall.
I've worn out every crutch
under the ballooning weight of my insecurity
and now with wobbly legs and unsure steps,
I must learn to stand on my own.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
Even plastic collects dust
Bright fibres of pink become dull magentas
From the countless years and endless days of Still life Sharp lines and smooth contours of artistically machined plastic toys become fuzzy as hazy dust
Piles
Heaps
And overflows
From one
Single
Fact
Inactivity?
Unappreciated worth?
Discontent?
Laziness?
No
None of these
The dust collects
Piles
Heaps
Even overflows
From USELESSNESS
The things that the dust is attracted to
That the dust clings to
Are the things that in comparison to the things that are imparitive to our existance and our health
Are useless
Are plastic
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
every morning i walk my terrier
through a winding half-mile,
but i think he’s the one walking me:
he’s always in a sprightly haste.
i don’t know how many tail wags
i miss in between slow, drowsy blinks.
elsewhere, the earth is walking her moon,
both zipping around their own usual orbit.
in the city, the suited adults manoeuvre sidewalks,
dispensing brief greetings, sparse on chatter.
punctuality is a battle through suitcase-wielding phalanxes.
overlooking the bustling crossroads, a greyed man sits,
****** from cigar compounding existing inertia.
limbs in inactivity, mind far from monotony,
slowly drifting towards a familiar wraith
in a different hurry: the one for reunion.
i think about us and wish the same.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
I have migraine headaches quite often.
Stress could be a factor as
I am a fifty-one year old father of three;
a retiree with too many chits, too many broken nest eggs...
Or it could possibly be my diet:
lots of carbohydrates and complex sugars,
mixed well with large quantities of
diet soda and inactivity...
Or perhaps the trouble lies with allergens;
for my life is inundated with pet dander, pollen,
dust, and grass clippings. Add to that
humidity levels and mold blooms -
who wouldn’t be allergic?
Or maybe it’s just a brain tumor.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
before existentialism, and nietzsche in mind, philosophy was written
or spoken of accepting the socratic rigidity of words,
the rigidity of words known through
the socratic method of inquiry:
the simplest of questions imposed on
the meaning of words; e.g. what is virtue?
but with existentialism this old method
of inquiry, the poised posing bewilderment
lost its quality, in that the new method of
inquiry was given to stress not a method
of questioning but that of ambiguity,
even though this new method that simply
said the reverse of what is virtue as
the preservation of a narrative: "virtue" concedes
many variations exampled true, e.g. -
this dittoing going against - previously said /
as above - became staged against
a brick wall - since this method, the existential
method of brushing aside inquiry and entering
the realm of ambiguity was already present -
the pluralism of meaning found in certain words;
it isn't a question whether red or blue can
be ambiguous, this allocation of noun
and quality is all too pervasive - so when
an ambiguity is allowed to exercise its stressor
posit - the word in question is allocated
a verb orientation in its exercise of use and example,
further diluted by the quantity and lack of example,
and ascribed contorting
adjectivity due to the dilution of meaning: with lessened
recognition of sought out qualification to sentence
an enzymic perfection of: banker and philanthropist,
priest and maximilian kolbe, poetry and lack of envy.
even though these examples are idealistic,
they provide the obvious ambiguity already apparent,
hence the double ambiguity of opposites, ideal opposites.
in shorthand - if socrates were to come
upon reading existentialism - his questions
regarding the virtues would be bound to free floating
terms in the ditto bubbles of flimsiness of non-inquiry -
bewildered by the number of prompts to question,
there would be no necessary ambiguity to many other
terms of inactivity - such as the previously mentioned
red and blue, dog and glue, but too many, it would seem,
should a strict belief in categorising virtue as a noun
but not a verb be kept - for categorisation of such nature
only provides a linear cascade without due action
or cared for imitation - ending with the only chance of virtue
chanced and seen as an unvirtuous person
doing crossword puzzles in silence - and already
virtue's opposite is engaged in defending itself
and justifying its ills by first forcing many synonyms to
cover it in ambiguity, and asserting itself as an adjective
within a noun framework blunt: virtue v. unvirtuous
will only confiscate siamese phonetic mingling to ease the definition;
i guess that's how rhyming was born, the opposite
of alphabetical ordering: a, aardvark the violet's blue
****** a doughnut with you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
The sunrise
Promise of a new day is a blessing I don't deserve
The autumn
Chance to change it brings is a gift I won't accept
Thoughts of beauty make me resent myself
Pulled me up a thousand times yet I still dig yet another hole to crawl back into
Dormancy making heart itch with restlessness
Living life in a frightened state of inactivity
Leaving pain somewhere I won't find it again but somehow it always makes its way back home
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 3:02 AM UTC
There's a place between society and the wild
Where aimless bodies are piled
We call it the Wastelands
All creatures die of old age
Or hunger inside this cage
The deer are never hit by cars
For they never travel that far
The Wastelands use fear
That's what keeps them here
The Wastelands are a scary place
It's horrifying how nothing happens
It becomes too much to face
So we hide under satin
To provide comfortable resting
And avoid Wastelands testing
The Wastelands are a barren environment
Solitary coyotes learn from the cacti
Who soak up meager moisture
And become prickly to protect it
Never knowing if nourishment was near
They grew prickly because of their fear
We inhabit the Wastelands
We're trapped here
Where the walls of the city
Seem to mirror
The walls of the wilderness
So it's here we build our nest
But surviving is a constant test
Because we have useless hands
Here in the Wastelands
Wastelands
Interaction
Is reaction
Create a faction
And never leave
Even if love cleaves
It lies behind ramparts of containment
And the fear of society's arraignment
Even if peace calls
It stays behind walls
Of trees hiding predators
That keep us embedded here
So we ***** barriers to protect us
From the barriers surrounding us
We find our connections through hatred
And build teams around it
We made foolish deals with Satan
This is what we're amounted
Scavengers from both worlds encroach the Wastelands
Journalists and artists mine our souls
Vultures mine our flesh like gold
Taking what they need and going home
Our rabid mouths begin to show foam
From the frustration of loss
But inactivity is our cross
While we watch carrion feeders
Carry on eating
Our friends
Until we turn and look away
Knowing that'll be us one day
Because in the Wastelands
Friends are just creatures who are near
There are no animals to hold dear
We're afraid to lend an ear
When Wastelands use fear
The Wastelands are hell
Dry river beds tell of a time
When the rain fell
But now we're plagued by drought
You can tell by looking at the trout
They flop on the ground
Wondering where to wander for water
The cacti remain still
It's the Wastelands will
In the Wastelands we wait to die
Although we really want to fly
We're just afraid of heights
Which impedes our sight
Where we can't view over our own barricades
It's fear that prohibits our ability to elevate
And we see that the order is too tall
Back into the Wastelands we fall
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
damp grass from the hillside
is cold on my feet as I walk
hands in my pockets and head looking down
legs leading slowly downhill
towards the sea.
There's something about going for a walk
that makes it easier to think
even if you completely ignore your surroundings
or don't go very far.
The sand surprises me
the soft white powder that shifts between my toes
and my feet slip a little with every step.
For the first time in a while, I look up
the sea is darker than usual, it's turbulent as well,
but I stop for a moment on the edge of the water.
Imagine If I fell in
I'd probably turn into driftwood and then just float off
until the water pushed me up onto some deserted beach
and then pulled me back in
and then pushed me up again
eternally caught in the space between sea and shore
the space between here and there
between is and isn't
between impulse and inactivity
I'm already there.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
thought breeds fear breeds hesitation breeds inactivity breeds regret breeds sorrow breeds this second
lying against the wall, heavy paint consuming terminal strands
ink stains on two-dollar offwhite notes
whose words are these?
not sure.
this second breeds disappointment breeds apathy breeds hopelessness breeds fatigue breeds long sleep
rivulets make short indents, slipping clockwork makes little difference
words by heart fall from cracked lip skin
whose laments are these?
I understand.
and wish I didn't.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
wolf ,
can you land meat ?
or are busy being needlessly cruel to 'lesser' peers ?
could you even take a basic stalk about the woods ?
or would you be blistered
breaking in those brand new pricy walking boots ?
a full moon ?
maybe you'd drink to excess on those nights ?
maybe pick a fight or beat on your loved ones
but whimper the next day ?
that smart suit ?
ridiculous over your fur
heard you're on a trendy fad diet
you fidget at your desk
you fidget on your screen
work is obscenely wasteful
distractions are just plain obscene
you are a coward to your soul
soiled by domestic inactivity
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 1:39 PM UTC
Dear Science and Math,
I pray to you because you are what I believe in. Today is the midterm elections for 2018, and boy are we in a mess. Evolution, I would like to apologize that we have devolved as a society to allow our government to function as a really terrible sitcom. Economics and Statistics, I feel your heavy gaze as we still have 2 more years before we hopefully take the bankrupt millionaire out of office. Every day we live under a system whose poster child mocks its citizens and strips the majority of their rights. Their rights to Medical Care, a healthy and functioning Environment, and a Financial System which can support the majority, not just the top 1%.
Today I did my part. I practiced my right . . . no my privilege to vote. Too many people chose not to vote. I didn't vote for the last 6 year because I felt I was uneducated in the topic. I felt I was flying blind, something I could have taken 15 minutes to change. If I were a citizen of Georgia I would have lost this privilege, because of 5 years of voting inactivity. If I were of Hispanic descent I would most likely have had to jump through excessive hoops because of a hyphenated last name. There are so many people who don't want to vote because they fear jury duty, or they don't want to wait in line, or they don't want to make time to vote, or they are just plain convinced the system is rigged and their opinion doesn't matter. Let me tell you something, your ballot only "doesn't matter" if you don't hand one in. In fact, it is probably working against the team you would have voted for.
I am a woman, which mean only in the past 100 years was my second X chromosome "granted" this privilege. There are still grandparents alive today who remember when, specifically, black people could not vote. There are also plenty of other cases of this "right" being restricted from huge groups of people because of, in reality, what makes them unique.
So, I sit here today Science an Math, praying to you that my little corner of the United States may become a better place for ALL of its inhabitants.
Please let the scales tip in the favor of justice.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
**gingerly on the knife-point of a problem
my inflated ego slowly was punctured
i heard the hiss of its demystification
in that constricted moment of revelation
a moment that enthused about the demise
of my avid hallucination now laid bare
salvation, the voice of naked truths chanted
is neither in the fig leaves nor in bashfulness
and the humming monotone of desperation
is a boost to candid inactivity and stillness
it is in such big-bore moments that we of
puerile yearnings recognize our childishness
a voice told me to stop tempting fate forthwith
for in truth i was a child with a dangerous toy
and only pampered tutors could stay the course**
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
At a certain
point in our lives
There's no more
"free time"
The closest thing
would be
periods
of
inactivity
procrastination
Or only long term deadlines
remaining
We may
have "breaks"
But even if it takes a
stop
...
We're still on the train
of life
Chugging away
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
She told me she would take a bullet for me
I was left stunned only recalling my hereditary
The horrendous guilt emerging all at once before me
Until I recognized her inactivity and realized she want listening to me
I dropped down on the floor almost instantly
Kneeling on one knee hoping her approval of me
Pledging allegiance so she knew she has the chance to consult me
Every time she recalled her children that neglected her for another woman they didn't know
Or the times she felt enigmatic to disown you
As she calls out your name begging to return home
Hearing your voice and having that bit of hope that one day
You mention her, get back to her and abide in her
playing with the golden precious sand
that make up the land which your ancestors once lived in.
I stare at the ruins that lay before me
A familiar face I stumble across
As I lift the grains of sand hoping its a person I know
Unidentified
I stand beneath the bridge hoping it will echo my freedom just like it did back home
I want to scream a thunder
but knowing its too late I'm pelted with stones
being told to go home
as I sit in font of the TV screen hoping I see a familiar face before me
My country.
Hergeysa burco barebera ceerigaabo
Our cities names was never meant to be pronounced by you
The syllabols were never meant to pass your diseased lips
And the delicacy not meant to struggle through your rough throat
But they did anyway.
Every night I see the elan in her face
Whilst providing me with the decree of a fast spree from our relationship
The visions we incarcerate together
And the identical marks and scars we endeavor
With out any confession of our pleasure we seek forever
Our heart beat beats twice as fast
Forming a rhythmic percussion
simultaneously taking a breath of Africa
I lay beneath the golden sun as the rays shine through my eyes
Proudly defining the color of my skin
Showing that none other can be akin
As I am the uniqueness of this historical country
Mogadishu, bosaaso, Los anod, barberra
Our cities names were never meant to be pronounced by you
But when we look at our stars one last time
I realized that it has been colonized too
© S Y A
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
From life, we learn many a valuable truth
That makes our existence one of worth
So growing old is no curse
As experience aids us steer life’s course
While life itself is a riddle
Remember, Death is an inexorable puzzle
Hatred burns life like fire
And wickedness turns it into mire
On Earth, forgiveness bonds hearts
But revenge, sure, breaks all bonds
Even a guilty falls prostrate
Before those willing to commiserate
Know, a true friend has no deceit
And a truly learned has no conceit
If jealousy is an acid which erodes
Generosity is a fuel that reloads
If inactivity is akin to death
Creativity is vital as breath
If perseverance conquers mountains
Laziness dries up fountains
While pride leads a man to his fall
Humility takes him closer to his goal
While Honesty leads him to salvation
Deceit drives him to damnation
Patience is an inexhaustible well
And ********** a sure road to hell
Know that those who long for the crown
Should also be torn by the thorn
While love of God takes us to eternity
Love of man leads us to fraternity
Ye Friends, with such priceless tips learned in bits
Light up your life in glowing glitz
Bury your past with all its woes
As each morn of hope brightly zooms!
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:17 AM UTC
originality. its become a long lost art
so don’t expect this to come from my heart
all the cookie cut out people, with their cookie cut out jobs
and their cookie cut out problems, their cookie cut out sobs
i’m not a real person, and neither are you
its a ***** to admit, but you know its true
we’re all raised to grow up and get paid
so one day a girl will show up to get laid
have a few kids, and the love starts to fade
it makes me want to puke, and call out for aid
but i’m bakin’ in the oven, can’t ****** see out
so i’ll try to keep on lovin’, and try not to pout
tears start to pour, like god turned on the spout
cause i can’t figure out what this life’s about
so god if you hear this i think i’m about done cookin’
but i bet your almighty nothingness aint even lookin’
cause we’re all alone in this world, trying to find our way
and if we’re lucky, we’ll make it thru to the end of the day
an accountant or some **** man whatever pays
this hypocritical cookie’s getting lost in a maze
there’s no need for creativity when all that matters is productivity
and i’ll speak but won’t dare to act, is that a product of inactivity?
**** the world, man i say tupac had it right
thats all i can say, already given-up this fight
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
For a few days, my pen will remain silent.
My mind will be numb and thoughts won't be violent.
For a few days, the writer inside me will hibernate.
I don't know when he'll return but I'm sure it is going to be a bit too late.
For a few days, I am not going to see the rising sun.
Will remain in the state of inactivity with no joy or fun.
For a few days, my face will look like a corpse devoid of any expression.
Expressing it didn't work out so I'll try the other way - supression
For a few more days, my heart will not be dilating just contracting inside my chest.
Hollowing me from inside, eating me up.
For some days, in peace I'll rest.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
Why I Kissed Your Glasses (A Love Poem)
I went to kiss your forehead
missed my turn off,
instead, connected,
with a seeing-eye tortoise
made of plastic.
Went to kiss your toes,
but the stunning purple hue that
decorated your toenails
shocked me into limp rigidity,
in-articulation, inactivity
Kissed your lips tenderly, longingly,
but Coco's formulation haunted me the whole day,
Her interference needed, but let it be noted accordingly,
It was you I loved, not her!
I kissed your fingertips so delicately,
with tenderness great,
enjoyed a vigorous nibble,
as your compensation,
received a poke in the eye,
accidentally, of course. (Right?)
Could go on and on,
but decorum forbids further revelations,
worth noting, but not composing,
still laughing at my just rewards,
the bruises resulting from my failed escapades!
All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...
10:00 AM
Shelter Island
Memorial Day Weekend 2013
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
My mind held tight lock and key but what I found was only what’s safe. Afraid to perish when my minds nails dug deep into the polished oak of the coffin. A coward dies 1000 cycles before the first battle cry of reality. Safe inactivity rots the bones to the marrow of the infected anxiety! So instead my cowardice and selfish ambitions moved to a new vice. I was most dangerous when successful to worldly accolades and dreams. I could hide in the shadows of potential, invisible to the threats of our carnal realities. Only showing face when it was safe and sound. Death brews in a caldron froth with the luke warm stock of fear stirred by the seasoning of our sinful natures. You only live once is the name of the selfish game and I think I just flat lined. You won’t find eternity in the safety of that mirror mirror on the wall….I want to Love deeper than deeper and yet deeper again. I want to pick up the cross and follow Jesus.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
tired autonomies, days keep on flailin', seizin'; darlin', I'd
be bolder if only I'd tried. makin' plans to abandon 'em,
the dark reach and tenements of those towers of regret for
all of my inactivity or self-targeted hostility, and those dreams
meant everything to me until awakening into morning hours
or afternoon, more likely, with the dull grip of uncertainty
shudderin' all the windowpanes back and forth lightly, oh
so **** delicately, and I think about you as soon as I've
drawn up ambition to make any kind of move, the pieces of
the vast puzzle I've called your mind for the better part of
the calendar dates I've drawn up into fifteen gauge shells of
the ghosts of my past, those that follow my footprints in evenings,
the pools of aluminium meltings and lemon extractions
to constrict the summer hours, convictions that bleach out
all other chances of hope.
so relinquish your grip on my red and unfolding heart I've
been beating the syllables of your name with, and abusing
the page width of headspace, serving only to alienate the
froth on the shoreline of daring chances: I'd have given
my all at the sight of romance, but I sit here with no
glimpse of intention from you; the crestfalls I subject myself
to, not for the sake of lack of want, but full lack of what
I'd do if I called and asked where you wanted to go at
three a.m. or five p.m., or any other canonical time of
the day; I'd spend any of 'em with you, and I'd
ask, but I'm somewhat sure you're not that into whatever I
could mean, or whatever my words do seem to transcribe themselves
upon contact with your mind, so keep on existing and I
will do the same.
[or, anyway, at least I'll try]
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
at night
before the night has come
when, in bed, I wait
for the sandman’s call
the gears of my mind
turn, lurching from inactivity
and whirl about
sending steam and smoke
everywhere
and my head will hurt
with visions of the future
seeming abysmal
if only for me
for others are happy,
successful, even famous!
but for me,
I am alone,
angry, and forgotten.
this is the nightmare
that returns to me every night
making me pray
that I will not wake up
that I shall die in that dream
that reality should be something better
than that hazy vision
in the morning
when I wake up
from a long night’s battling
with my deepest and best-kept fears
I feel the poison of doubt
draining out of me
into a puddle there
on the floor
and days
and months
and years
and centuries
I refused to clean up that puddle
and each morning it grows larger
always sicklier than before
yet still I do not grab the mop
or vacuum
during the day
I try not to get left alone
that mind
that creates those nightmares
still lurks behind my eyes
it seeks blood,
my blood,
in the form of insanity
because even it knows
that it’s mirages aren’t real
but it knows it can drive me to them
if I am weak enough
and he can convince
me
Dec 19, 2010
Dec 19, 2010 at 5:57 AM UTC
Carstairs had been waiting for the boat for three days and there it was, suddenly appeared. He had dozed and it had appeared. He trained his binoculars on it, but it was too far away to be clearly recognisable. It seemed motionless, becalmed in a sheet of unruffled water.
He had dug himself into a bank in the sandhills. He still had a little water, some raisins; there was a final cube of chocolate carefully wrapped in the whole of its paper. It was the thought of this hidden pleasure that had sustained him during the hours of darkness when the slight rain and the chill of inactivity had forced him to exercise, to move about, though always afraid he would lose his burrow.
From the earliest light of dawn the day had been clear and still. The sea birds had muted calls, the sea itself more a presence than a sound. The tide had steadily retreated beyond his expectations. He knew he had to wait for the arranged signal.
Turning on his back he looked at the sky. A few clouds floated hesitantly in the glazed blue. He remembered suddenly a moment from his childhood, above the beach at Red Point. He had escaped his parents, his adored sisters, and hidden himself in the marran grass. He had lain on his back and felt himself levitate into the clouds. He had looked down on the whole scene, a waking dream. Those moments floating above the long Highland beach had never left him. Sitting in the examination hall for his Tripos that memory had come upon him; he had been paralyzed by it, unable to write or think. He had closed his eyes and strange geometrical shapes had ensnared him. He had felt extremely sick . . .and then very calm. He had returned to the task in hand, a translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, that opening passage describing Eurus, Zephyr, Auster and Boreas: the four winds.
. . . he felt something wet nuzzle his hand. A dog, a black shape no more. As he struggled to move himself a larger shape obliterated the sun and shot him.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC