South Bordered Flames

Wretched Abode, The Sunken Shore

I was fifteen back then, and I sat by the window pane. Roaming outside was clean sunlight, its rays seeping under the trees. I reckoned it was one fine day, a chance to detach from misery and I aspire to carve out a moment of a fairy tale. The ambiance lingered and sunken onto my chest. I rushed outside the door, and sank the soles of my feet on the damp grass, speckled with the dry patches of mud.

Please let this tale be longer than a novel, I wished-like a whisper to flame.

With this life I have come to be stretched thinly in, I could only wish until the sky's the limit.

Fairy tales are too short for me. It is like some unfinished symphony, barring some unforeseen cosmic significance to an earthly event. It seems like I am deliberately building each frame of a four-piece puzzle. And yet something lingers me into these rapid words, knowing I could only taste its cuisine for a short period of time. Tantalizing at first then it becomes a disappointing piece by its short length.

Under my tongue, I felt a bitter sensation, endless at the tip of my tongue. It's like expected comings of combined mystery. Frankly, I wasn't bothered. I was making a fairy tale out of this day. I was the least content, but I was happy. At least I've dugged out rest on a leisurely, sunny day. It was all that clouded my head.

It was neither chilly nor warm. All I tried was to embrace the blessing of that day-the leaves flying in abundance with the wind, the loud cries of the cicadas that rushed the branches of the tree I sat beneath in and I could make out the rustling of the leaves disrupt by the marathon of the wind. I tried to count each leaf that fell from the trees, but it felt like sand seeping through the gap of my fingers. Under the verdant shades of the tall tree, the wind swept my face and I found my eyes surrendered to the gentleness.

As I was driven away from the fine day, I was pushed into another trajectory-distant from my tangled tale-no doubt, I felt an oddly crumbling feeling, something fulfilling I sense an impending doom. It was too good to be true. I remember standing at a standstill far away from the shore. The horizon stretched into an axis of sheer void, its bluish hue still visible from within but I could barely make out the terrains of the world around me. It revolved only at the man who wore a black sweater, reeling me in his presence, though I could tell he was an unfamiliar face but the linger of his embrace lures me in.

I found my bare feet faltering on the sand, sinking the soles of my feet. I drew closer to this man and felt the riptides rushing onto my feet.

It wasn't the coldness of the ocean rage that I felt, I was at South, bordered in flames.

"Life hasn't been great for you?" He queried.

He waits for me to elicit a response, in return, I shook my head. Honestly speaking, I'm not sure of what I feel. This separates this oddly feeling from the realistic sense and I could not seem to make a difference out of it.

"It's a foolish concept you know. Life." I muttered as I stare directly at the center point of the horizon, watching the gradient of black and blue collide together.

"Huh," he inflected with confusion "life isn't a concept, though, it's rather a piece of experience. It's continuous. Breathing. Something you could rediscover." He added.

"Well, it seems like something that revolves around a concept. How can such one thing happen at the same time? To feel pain and pleasure?"

"It contradicts most things, too, you know. These simultaneous occurrences may happen and box you with confusion."

"It is a concept for its essence-life's meaning and its purpose." He adds. For some time. I mull it over. It doesn't stack up any sense, my mind seems not to leave any room for this particular answer-I can understand the notion, but it makes no particular sense.

"Then how can a person say to another person that they are their life? If life is not just something you can contradict, why do you give life away?"

"Have you not heard of metaphors, lady?" He cackled as he sat on the sand; his arms on top of his knees and his head topped his forearm. He had seem to be invested too much of the black ink sky that revolved that was assisted by the pale moon's shift. I could only hear the crashing waves that corrupt the silence of this world.

This man had a hair spring of dark silk, the shore ricocheted off of the moonlit glow with coolness. His face framed of his hair perfectly, carrying remarkable glow and softness that mesmerised hearts without notice.

"As if it was. This held too much significance on someone, that's one thing I know for sure. It's all a game of charades."

The gentle waves strangely sung strange melody becoming a quiet tide. Looking back at him, he cut a bewildering gaze, as if broken a solemn rule. The moonlit glow illuminates a single tear that streamed the right cheek of his face and I felt my body slowly being taut by something unjust, reeling me away from the familiar comfort of reality. It was as if time itself had stopped breathing-embracing its dysfunctions. The air grew thick and I roamed with despair. Vulnerable.

"Well, time has come to a halt, dear. May your recollection of me abide with you again. To thousands."