The music plays across the open sky, whistling through the old, gnarled trees of the forest, across the rocky crags of the mountain tops, and worming through the valleys below.
If I listen hard enough I can hear the long, low lament of time even from here, so far from its beginning, even further from its end.
On an endless summer day, two children run along the beach, full of life, immortal for the moment, they run with all the joy of life and youth neverending.
The salty surf sprays them as they pass at breakneck speed, neither starting nor ending, rolling in and out.
I see them as clear as crystal, and feel them in my heart, mournfully happy on an endless summer's day.
They know nothing but play. The boy, lagging behind, fair skinned and strong, laughing in the salty breeze.
The girl still ahead, bells tinkling around her every movement. Hair black as a raven's wing and eyes as green as nature itself.
They hold all the fire of life, the innocence of youth, and the mischief of experience. The moment has neither beginning nor end, but plays out with the slow, stalwart pace of the ages and the frantic pace of all living things.
They embrace and time stops in this perfect moment of love, there is nothing else.
I look up at the night sky and the constellations form her face everywhere I look, the stars light the fire in her eyes, and that dirty, mischievous little grin plays on forever.
I smell orange blossoms, the essence of purity itself and know that all people know this pair.
The primogeninators of humanity.
They look forward and know the road will be hard, yet they run for it all the faster, across a beach of pure, white, sand.
They celebrate the morrow and mourn the past, regretting not an instant in between. Always running, for the sheer freedom of the act, the pleasure of existence, and the joy of life and life to come, forevermore.
Even now, on a quiet summer's night, I can still hear their laughter in the air, and smell orange blossoms on the fresh breeze.
Occupation: Freelance Writer
I am a twenty three year old partially disabled man who is desperately looking for a way to earn a living without having to leave the house. I currently live with my disabled mother and step-father; partly from my inability to afford my own home, partly from my great fear of abandonment, and partly because I am required to help care for my mother.
I have loved to read since I was little, mainly as an escape from the reality that seemed to deal my family and I one blow after another. My mother became disabled nearly fifteen years ago, my brother and I following about one year later. We grew up in an old haunted house on land that was originally claimed as belonging to the Seminole tribe. My entire family encountered old cold spots, irrational feelings of anger or terror, and glimpses of a goblin-like creature running down the hall on a daily basis. Though it may seem petty or farfetched, I truly do believe that whatever entity resided in that house harmed us in some way, cursing us with poor health.
As a result of that curse, my family and I have been hard put to keep a roof over our heads, though I was grateful for the fact that my father, possibly the most oblivious man I've ever met, never once succumbed to illness and was able to provide for his wife and children... Up until he decided he was tired of caring for a sick woman and divorced her. I was beginning my first year in college by then. He drained my college funds and used them to pay for a lawyer to take my mother to court to protest against paying child support for my sickly younger brother.
Luckily I had worked my tail off in high school, despite being too ill to attend a year and a half and teaching myself algebra and trigonometry, and landed several scholarships that floated me through. I first majored in English as I wished to become a writer from a very young age. By the beginning of my second year I realized that a writer needed no accreditation, so I switched to a personal fascination of mine, psychology.
I never really understood the human mind and its thought processes, though I was good at empathizing with people and providing counseling. I thought that my major would enable me to become a therapist. I'd spent enough time one the couch and knew the routine well enough that I thought I could do the other guy's job too. I studied hard and graduated magna cum laude of a class of nearly 5,000.
Unfortunately my guidance counselors never mentioned that a Bachelor's Degree in Psychology is virtually useless. One needs a Master's at the least to be qualified to practice. Compounding insult to injury, I was the victim of an attempted carjacking while on my way to take the examinations I would need to get into graduate school. The man who attacked me died of his injuries and I never did get the opportunity to get to the testing facility. Because of this I was unable to apply for grad school or obtain any scholarships and was forced to move back home.
I've been working as a sales associate in a department store for the last year and half as my health has allowed. Though I am currently unemployed as my sales numbers were too low as a result of the failing economy and I was forced to either tender my resignation or be fired.
I've excelled as a creative writer very early on, and fantasized about being a published author since I was in middle school. It occurred to me that I might be able to make a meager living by writing articles online, as I am relatively skilled in creative and analytical writing.
The biggest problem I face when writing is my difficulty in coming up with believable dialog. This has stemmed from my inability to understand other people; for some reason their thoughts and actions are totally alien to me, though my reclusive nature has probably added to this shortcoming.
For all those who've had the strength of will or lack of apathy to read this tale of pathetic woe I thank you. Should you read any of my articles and rate them, I thank you further. Should you have any constructive criticism to offer, or simply wish to talk, it would be more than welcome.
PS. Try to guess how much of this story is true! (Maniacal Laughter)
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