Heart
When it came to centuries, it was not a matter of survival.
Day in and day out, walking an endless road, grasping at straws you’d picked a hundred times before, paths you knew decade by decade even as they transformed themselves… it was not about conquering beasts and defeating bandits; money no longer held meaning, home no longer mattered. Lying in a bed beside a warm body, words and emotions left empty even in the deepest darkness, the sweetest ecstasy. Fear, sleep, death…
There was only life.
One step after another, breathe in, breathe out; ignore the emptiness, keep the knife in its sheathe. Head high, eyes open, hands reaching. Look forward. Keep walking…
Keep walking.
Keep breathing.
Keep being.
Lips, hands, skin… Eyes so bright they blinded; a thousand faces, all different, all the same. Hot breath, sweet words, height of pleasure…
Keep living.
There was only heart.
Hey,
Hmm, quite interesting… this seemed to have been written in the air, so to speak. Just as it came. And that can produce some good things… I would specially like to know what were you doing/experiencing/thinking before you wrote this one.
Well, keep on writing,
- César