What makes a man choose his outcomes? Who is it that he thinks will replace those lost if when by sudden happenstance the instance quickens? With a step and out of focus he strides to become, and all of five seconds grows, withering like shriveled parchment. Can this in fact be counted as growth? Was what counts on record or by mistake taken in to custody? So there too lies his hope. There too with a forgotten want gropes fainly, like a soft touch just slightly abrasive.
From the ground each echo finds Maxwell lost in himself, searching the dark for a hero. Or herion. This boy confined now desperate to turn over a memory for the sake of freedom. His cage a wooden casket. His self a lifeless doll. His mind a basket, losing strength, lossing grips, unraveling and unrelenting. Now the targets gather. Now he can hunt. Now he can have them searching, saving?
Now he can hope. Gifts are the things that travel with you after everyone and everything else has vanished. A gift is something that you can never lose, or give back. For Maxwell, that gift was time and the ability to move matter thru it.
‘That is how I will find my friends again’, He would tell himself each night before reaching out beyond touch to grab a whisper.
Watching the lights dim and die from all sides of the lake, thier shimmers slowly rippled out upon it’s silken surface, his hope began to fail. Not all of the gifts you get are for the better….he suppossed.
Categories: Matthew Newton