Tagged: discovery

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an upcoming untitled piece.

Read on if you'd like; if so, thank you for taking the time to do so. Best of days to all.

The bus veered around a series of winding corners, and they slowly and methodically snaked their way deep into the trees. He surprisingly managed to drift in and out of sleep periodically with each bump and sway of the ancient machine as it rocked him to sleep. The old driver tamed the turns like a seasoned pro, and managed to swerve deftly around each craggy bend; any driver with normal nerves would surely not have attempted that type of road with the type of speed that this guy was able to conjure up. It was actually quite a shock that the old scrap heap was able to generate any speed at all, he mused. One look at that thing and you’d think it must’ve been George Washington’s motor coach. That fucker had to have been at Valley Forge. A good jolt jarred him from his sleep, and he sat up wide-eyed in the seat. He gave a quick, slumber induced glance around the bus in order to get his bearings, and noticed that her eyes had closed and her head was tilted back against the seat. Her head shifted gently from side to side with each curve of the road, and she looked so peaceful like that, he thought, her head dancing along with the movement of the bus. The breeze forced its way in and caught fragile tufts of her hair in its grasp, and sent it flying rapidly in front of her face. She was beautiful.

From the Vault.

Originally posted on 7-12-11.

 

I searched the desert sands
just to later realize that I was in the
jungle;
and the pool of water that I sought so
desperately was just within reach,
only I was too parched to
swallow-
and by that point, too weak to
stand.
I lay there on my back,
atop a mossy patch of green, tangled
earth, while
insects trekked over me as if I were
an abandoned log-
they went about their way,
in search of their own sparkling oases.
The leaves around me rustled with
life,
and the brush was alive with movement.
I lay motionless, staring at the soaring
blue sky,
deep and blue and rich
with a tint of yellow orange sun,
absorbing the sounds of my temporary
confinement.
I heard feet brush past me-
I’d closed my eyes to rest, you see, and
I followed the hurried sound with my ears
and opened them slowly to see myself
walking toward the pool,
which was only a few paces away,
right in front of me…
the entire time.
I wearily watched this version
stride to the pool and take a drink;
how effortless it truly was, and
then I questioned how difficult I’d made it
out to be, sipping from that pool.
I turned back to the sky
and cursed this alternate me,
enraged at the thought of what could
be-
but I was only cursing myself…
I realized then that I wandered the desert
because I never thought that I was
worthy of a drink*

-G. Boston

6-5-15

He painted the surface of the
moon with doubt,
and filled each crater with tears,
as his breath painted the night sky with
mist spewed into the chill of winter,
fast and frantic and desperate-
he knelt in the snow and prayed,
and prayed,
and waited…
the sun dried his face clean,
and taught him the power of words
and the truth behind them,
of expression, and the freedom
that it dealt,
of self belief,
and the healing that it sows,
of change, and the foundation that it
constructs-
one foot on the ground and another
on the mountain,
perched tall on the moon while gazing
at mars,
always searching ahead for the next
challenge,
preparing for the next battle,
dreaming of the next hurdle,
planning the next adventure
and refusing to settle for less…
all while savoring each second
of the present*