Praestigiare

Iteration III

It does not care

November 9, 2009

He turns around. The warmth of the sun travels over the back of his head, across his cheek and face. Even behind closed eyes the light is bright enough to hurt, and then it subsides again into cloudy red afterimages. Left foot, inhale, dark, exhale, bright right foot, there are too many competing rhythms for it to be peaceful. It is a clear day, and he can almost believe that if he just keeps spinning he can evaporate into the wind.

He imagines looking out over the ocean, the sharp salt air and vast blue. He breathes in. He imagines gently biting someone’s lip, feeling another body arch against his. The sun warms his face. He imagines a man with a gun, someone he could fight with the excuse of self defense. He shifts his weight to the left foot. The ground is uneven. He imagines carrying a little girl to her bed, a goodnight kiss on a sleepy forehead. The afterimages of the sun waver and break into relative darkness.

The thoughts hold him in the shape of a man, tying him together. He resists the wind, forces it to move around him. He hates the wind. He hates it for not being strong enough to carry him away. He rages against it with all his terrible violence, but it is the wind, and it does not care.