He walked a long way; he had felt he had walked a very long way, but the moon had still not passed its midpoint. It was still hanging in the sky, like a coin in a string, a diamaond on a chain - something so magnificent and grand that it had to be shown to all, but just out of their reach so precious and priceless it was. It was in plain sight for all to see, but not near enough to grasp, but only to behold its beauty. The path he claimed took him down a steep hill. It was one of those hills in where if you were to attempt to climb up, you would always fall down, and if you tried to climb down, one would encounter the bottom sooner than one had expected. It was just steep. Stairs had been built to rectify this disturbing dilemma. He began to descend, but he stopped. His shadow had barely enough time to avoid a collision, sliding over by just a hair, as his companion stopped with him; it was as if she was expecting it. He had an urge to sit down, and so he did. He had forgotten when he had last sat down. It was only two nights ago, in the fields, under the stunning sky, in the sparkling starlight. He had no reason to sit, but he did. And he began to think of everything and anything, of everyone and no one. Then he remembered. "I can't believe..." he stammered. "I can't believe I had been so stupid." His head was hanging. It was limp, a strange position for his neck to stoop in. He had not felt this way in a very long time. It was a feeling very foriegn to him; he had not allowed himself this agony for the longest of times. He sat and he thunk, he thought and he thinked, and all the long while he his neck was loose, his head had swayed. He could not believe he was feeling this way, of a past long gone, for time's disarray, of an age long ago he had buried in vain. "Why?!" he cried alone to the moon, whose image remained blurred, sullen, smooth. He sat there for a long, long while, shaking and shuddering, hoping there was no one to watch him in this pitiful state. The palms of his hands were pressed against his head, holding his eyes in their sockets. His arms were supporting his skull, keeping it from falling onto the ground and spilling the worthless grey matter upon the earth; his elbows strained against his knees. He sobbed. He did not know why, but he did. He blew his nose into his white handkerchief, replacing it within his clothing after use. He wondered why he had done so, and quickly pulled it out and threw it upon the hill beside him. He looked over, seeking to see it, and caught a glimpse of it as it floated down the side of the hill. He jumped to his feet with the speed of a fox, and raced it down the slope as if his life had depended on it. His shadow, as always, faithfully followed as did his companion behind him. Deftly catching the handkerchief and replaced it within his clothing. He was glad that he still held on to it, that he still had this in his possession.
He began on the path once more, the cloth clutched tightly in his hand.
30 December 2004
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