Find your next favourite story now

Talking Rain

2 Comments 2
1.0k Views 1.0k
958 words 958 words
Standing here and feeling that steady mist that’s falling having no words to say, and knowing exactly what is meant when they say that the Devil’s in the details and I seem to be walking in a wasteland, or just felt as if I were merely the ghost in machine with times I felt as if I couldn’t carry on as if I had been left behind. And been torn between waiting or not waiting for tomorrow as that false clock tries to distract me and tick out my time. But, then again if I have been put out to pasture it’s the way that the Tao dictates as it should be in this moment, with all just being nothing more than life and life only that’s taking place.

Remembering being asked once if that old Highway 61 had ever taken me to North Point which is grey and cold? A place where I have found myself being at now as I stand here in my Civil War greatcoat as that fine mist falls, where time passes slowly and all seems later than it truly is as each moment unfurls, passes, and fades in the grey here. And one can chase silhouettes and false leads like the time spent here or in a silent tomb where not all is truly silent, with silent truths found mixed in with the writing found on the walls in this cold grey place known as North Point.

Feeling a pause in that mist that’s falling, as I look and see a million stars through a hole in the clouds, like a hole that’s been blown in space and I know that a black moon will be soon rising out on that dark horizon, and knowing that I am in the hands of fate and feeling as though I am standing on thin ice as long as I spend time here. In this cold, grey place that’s silent as a tomb as I stand with starlight in my eyes for a short time before the rain returns, and turning my collar to the cold and damp as a light rain falls with a gentle breeze which has me thinking of why I am here, and needing no face or name as I stand here in this dark, forbidding place in the cold and damp.

Behind this face I know I am nothing more than a broken mirror like all of the broken thoughts I carry too, and wondering what silent truths I will be finding from the writing that has been etched on the walls and been left behind, unlike the writings that the self-proclaimed saints claim to be their “gospels” for they never have been to North Point.

Nor would they wish to hear what can be heard here only by those who wish to know the truth that’s been camouflaged, though it might seem as though time spent here is done only in vain as I see those massive gates slightly ajar, and noting how much they look like the massive Tannhauser Gate where I once danced in the snow till the sun faded.

Looking through the light rain at those gates and wondering why old Highway 61 directed me to North Point? As I catch a slight scent of snow in the rain that’s falling and is being brought in by that gently blowing breeze, and then finding myself walking to a small overhang and looking where I know the sea crashes hard against the cliffs below my boots.

Having me flash back to when I climbed up and saw the city’s lights as time seemed to stand still as it seems to do here, except then I was part of the scenery and not walking as if I were the ghost in the machine or a wasteland, and still like here I stretched every nerve to hear without a choice what information was being given.

Knowing that at times there is too much confusion and illusion spins her net as liberty silently laughs and pirouettes. And during those times, I think and believe that I am truly free as I leave another empty silhouette with the others that remain. And turning as I feel that familiar tug on the wrist by that old Highway 61 and know it’s time I made my way on down the line, as I just try to find out all I can as I pick them up and put them down in the way I was taught in Georgia a long time ago. Picking up speed in the old Infantryman’s ground eating pace I learned there as I look back at the forbidding gate, as I know that everything will fade like silly thoughts and those things once thought essential to all things.

Still there are times I can’t breathe easy and know that the Devil grins from ear to ear with the hand that’s dealt. But, I frustrate him still as I continue to try and live life on the square and try to win with that losing hand I was given. And at times, I feel the anguish of things lost and at times try to take control of things as I allow them to fade away. Knowing that when the day breaks I will be miles away from where I was directed and wish to feel a hand in mine, or was that one of the things that were lost and why I was directed to that old cold grey prison named North Point? To possibly have me wonder why things are sacrificed and to humble me or repair the broken mirror I became?

Copyright August 2010 – 6: Timberwolf International LTD.

Written by Shotgun011
Loved the story?
Show your appreciation by tipping the author!

Get Free access to these great features

  • Create your own custom Profile
  • Share your imaginative stories with the community
  • Curate your own reading list and follow authors
  • Enter exclusive competitions
  • Chat with like minded people
  • Tip your favourite authors