[Rolling Pichu]

Synopsis: A pessimist's fear of death.


Impressioni di Settembre


For days I breathe and the fear doesn't dither, and as I stay still facing the old, burnished wall clock I become more sentient. I dread days, and I fear the twilight frequently. Why? Is this funny or disgraceful, it is, even to me; but I remain cold before a hurried judgment in my mild mind. Such one that is to caress my nerve and make me shiver, stumbling across the road of a dumb pursuit, a pathway struck with pictures and walls, and a beacon I urge not to reach. Should I keep this in redundancy?I compare a lifetime. I lay it by the face of anything as ordinary as time, as sunlight. What are days? Distant remnants of a broken echo, which insidiously carve themselves into a colorless wall once more, are now forming a mirror, falling and clashing like jigsaw pieces into a timeline of disgrace, of panic, of constant smiles, of a life. I make of hours years, I make of seconds weeks. Being leads to death. As daylight to dark, each derides the other and then dusk marks a nearby end, dawn is a new timeline; but not unchanged. Mine is to end sometime.

I walk through a silent alley. One place I know as much as I know myself; where I remain oblivious to the demands of a different culture. I vaguely distinguish the time of day, but it should be daybreak already. It's the only reason I feel willing to discern what the sunlight will give me today.

I hesitate a moment, still... There will be no sunlight. I know this after reaching after the gloomy brick corridor I scarcely pierced, and I come out to grasp a screen on which the morning caress is as twilight, and a dim contrast between that and the dull red luster from the walkway makes no worry on my eyes. Also, even ironically, I was truly expecting to be bathed by sunlight for a day, while it often made me ill. Instead I'm soaked by cold drops of lucid, falling water, while I continue my wandering through the frame of a quiet city, below a sky overcome by dreary clouds.

After a few steps the square and I are already drenched by rain, and I become dimly aware of the early birds, and the sleepless working people that enjoy the humid smell of wet pavement. Those are people unafraid, brave and willing, troubling about things that deal with life, ignoring death for the time being. It is just when it is present on a prized person when one becomes anxious once more like I have. Whether one loves life or finds its end repulsive, depending on the soul, it gives our time either a sour drop of terror or a healthy laugh. Only people like me are to know death is not forgiving, and its arrival chronic, and that leads us to fear, yet when it's not close. I still miss her... Even the usual bright premise of days seems cloudy to me now, because it's a longtime, jaded, fraternal love which I starve, which I lost, what I am to blame for my now apparent negativity. I wonder why I was to suffer; I wonder why it was not I. Would I still stumble at the mention of fatality? If this wasn't meant to be me, would I still be gazing upon the faded skyline?

Maybe it all becomes rather rhetorical as I sit by a damp way of concrete, watching the autumn leaves hurry by the moist air around me; fixed on the muddy floor beside the hard park's pathway, lifeless, they add to my portrait of fallen proposals. Of course, looking at the lengthy limit of the hills, I'm still weeping inside, like a helpless boy, as If I bore the most painful fate one could ever handle. I also find that thought repulsive. But those hills are different than me; they helplessly attempt to carry the sun once more, and I should believe, for once, I'm not a pessimist.

The streets are still mirrors to the heavens, and lights are not to be found anymore, as the sun has rose up to my left, slowly moving eastward. I find this graceful as the thick blanket of gray degrades its glow, and it does not cease the struggle to come through to me, it does not vacillate, it reaches out, it wants to wash me with its flush. Then, just then, I stop by a thought, a coming muse... The potent radiance, it does not give in. It repels any grounds of holding back; it crawls by the limit of that murky blanket, crying to surmount it. It's racing behind me. Me... "Shouldn't that be me?" I whisper, feeling quite awkward at this mention. I suddenly know a warm stir was to reach me once again, it's faint, but easy, while I had yet forgotten; it's faith. Even still tapped by rain...

While I'm realizing this, I cannot count the seconds, or the hours. It could have been several ages until I knew it was noon. The hollow drumming of the drizzle had already ceased to tap against the old trees, and a moth-eaten, thin beam of light had boiled my sodden shoes.

After all, the sun had given me glow. Something tore the rain away, and the city was now sparkling at the blend of light and water. Everything was looking casual, again... Radiant now? But I could not help smiling at nowhere after what I told. I never lingered for such an ordinary sight to change that aged and sad angle I had held fixed for years so suddenly; nor I was able to remember ever truly enjoying the simple image that stood before me; a cozy, orange-colored atmosphere, a western breeze and the voices of the leaves, the essence of September. Nostalgia... "Heh" I muttered, still smiling, but halted by surprise.

"I've never actually liked orange..."

[Phonoho]

Oh my, this is absolutely stunning! We would really love to get to know the mind behind this piece of writing. Some of your sentences are lengthy but they are perfectly constructed and I think that is your voice in this. The effect is almost surreal.
Welcome Pichu, I think this is going to be your kind of place.

[Lubesh]

Vivid and intense yet a simple thought and flickering glimpse of a loss and coming through to resolve another battle, if i am right, was so absorbing. Your use of language did give it an almost surreal air and before the middle I had plenty of scope for alternate interpretations - it could, for me, have gone anywhere. Absolutely an astounding work of art.

[RENA HANDS]

As I read this extraordinary piece I thought myself literally walking in the shoes of the character. The details were exceptional. The whole sum of this story was magnificent, truly superlative.

[Rolling Pichu]

Thank you for reading this. I'm really flattered after reading your comments, and all I can say now is that I consider this a personal piece. I must confess I had not written too much lately, and recently I felt I wanted to get that off my chest and make of it a story. Thank you again.

[Phonoho]

What I like about this composition is it's tone and diction. It has the dramatic feel of an interior monologue (thanks Lubesh) or a poetic soliloquy-

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soliloquy

Somewhat like a single act from a play or an opera where the character sings or speaks his thoughts to himself or an absent character. Remember Hamlet holding the skull of Yorick?
I have some writing of this type and have often wondered how to package it without morphing it into metered stanzas. You have given me great hopes for my old notebooks.

[Rolling Pichu]

I often lean towards introspecion and reflections of oneself. I like the idea of one looking at a mirror and elaborating on this and that, and I also recur to the idea of pessimism very often. I somehow find it limiting to place these matters on stanzas; some of my metaphors or humble ideas just don't really fit in that aspect of literature.