#trappedintheamberofthismoment #westandfirm #баловство
Time is a stream. It trundles along its rocky bed, not really water, but a shallow mass of half-melted snow and ice, with a sprinkle of crispy autumn leaves on its surface. It sloshes around my old army boots and creates little whirlpools that travel even slower, fading in and out as I carefully place step after step. There's something tugging at my breastbone, dragging me forward with a longing, painful sensation. Might be a fishing line in there, but it's difficult to make out among the greying hair on my chest. Vapor rises from the surface, exhalations of relief that blur out the jagged shoreline in the distance. Maybe there are others in the mist, or maybe it's the echo of my footsteps, just like I am an echo of the giants whose paths I now trace. Someplace ahead, all the lines converge into a pointy star, an asterisk with too many strokes of dark ink; the ultimate Charybdis of these freezing waters, waiting to be embraced to become the new sun, to spill its hidden heat from the horizon and take over this dull palette of jet, alabaster and charcoal, to turn them into the tenderest of azures and pinks. In the end, all we shall see is another dawn, and I welcome mine to blind me with its iridescent glory.
Time is a stream. It trundles along its rocky bed, not really water, but a shallow mass of half-melted snow and ice, with a sprinkle of crispy autumn leaves on its surface. It sloshes around my old army boots and creates little whirlpools that travel even slower, fading in and out as I carefully place step after step. There's something tugging at my breastbone, dragging me forward with a longing, painful sensation. Might be a fishing line in there, but it's difficult to make out among the greying hair on my chest. Vapor rises from the surface, exhalations of relief that blur out the jagged shoreline in the distance. Maybe there are others in the mist, or maybe it's the echo of my footsteps, just like I am an echo of the giants whose paths I now trace. Someplace ahead, all the lines converge into a pointy star, an asterisk with too many strokes of dark ink; the ultimate Charybdis of these freezing waters, waiting to be embraced to become the new sun, to spill its hidden heat from the horizon and take over this dull palette of jet, alabaster and charcoal, to turn them into the tenderest of azures and pinks. In the end, all we shall see is another dawn, and I welcome mine to blind me with its iridescent glory.
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Эту запись оставил(а) на своей стене Егор Юрескул
