With a moth-eaten suit barely clinging to my body like unrequited love that so eagerly teases, I meander down this abyss of nothingness. As I continue, a discernible breeze caresses my skin triggering goosebumps ready for harvest: the most feeling I have had in weeks. I walk and walk as I know of nothing more. I notice the clouds quiescently drooping down towards the soil as if it was being driven by an octogenarian who's vision has abandoned her along with her three spawns that spent years plotting an escape from the oppressive North Korean-esque regime that plagued their childhood household. The earth's floor obediently gives way as endless walls erect out of the ground on both sides of the path. This is normal, right? I walk and walk as I know of nothing more. The octogenarian-driven cloud has finally kissed the dirt and finally my vision has forsaken me. Fog saturates the surroundings, conditions ripe for the Grim Reaper to prey. I walk and walk as I know nothing more, until the cold, sharp, unforgiving blade of death cuddles with my jugular.

For once, I know that this is not right. I stop, blade firmly pressed against my throat and immediately my surroundings change by God's grace. The fragile walls crumple, revealing the deceitful nature of paper maches. The octogenarian has been usurped by Ricky Bobby and the clouds ferociously flee the scene as if it hit the Pope on his daily stroll at the Vatican. I look down and the once moth-eaten suit was now an expertly-tailored premium Italian suit that embraced me with love. Flora with the most vibrant of colors had sprouted all around, with the sky shining the most brilliant of blues. I have stopped, but the world had finally opened up to me. 

With the blade of death still pressed firmly against my throat, I take a step forward. The blade disintegrates into thin air like the impostor that it was. Ahead of me, I am greeted by a labyrinth of paths. I take a deep breath, compose myself and take a step towards the most alluring path. Ensuring that I take proper stops along the way, I walk and walk as I now know more.

Comments

  1. BigAndSexyBeardedManTotallyMasculineCoolGuyJuly 10, 2019 at 12:04 PM

    Yoooooooooooooo! This is what creative writing is about. I feel like my brain had a workout and massage at the same time. A classic 80’s cranium jazzercise with the writer’s wit and prose playing the role of sexy leotard-wearing freaky-happy instructor. And I’m still thinking about what it means, and how it made me feel. Art.

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