Boy

He sits alone on a rock, staring up at the mountain. The mountain is dark. The sun rises, and gold flows on the stream. A raven flies over scree, and the tip of the mountain glows. The light becomes brighter and cloaks the entire mountain. It is too bright to watch. He shuts his eyes and goes back to sleep.

*

It was wet, malleable; a ball of clay. It twisted and turned as he nudged it, eased it. His hands flew over its surface and it ebbed and flowed. It changed. It was smooth, fluid; t was beauty.

*

He cycles through the streets. He belongs there. The cars on the road dislike his noiseless, carefree motion. They attack. He turns and banks and pivots and flies past them and through them and over them. He is free and pure and all that is good. The road sings to him and both are harmony.

*

He is not alone. His boat is with him. Together, they soar over the water until an island stops them. His boat is hurt, she cries in pain. And then, she sinks. He is alone. He mourns his boat, and breaks her oars. Soon, he finds a new boat. He is not alone.

*

He walks up a mountain. He is far from home, yet he is almost there. His boots are torn, as are his feet, but he has been summoned. He cannot stop. The mountain towers over him, but he is not afraid. He is pride and awe. He has come a long way, and he has not faltered, nor failed. He reaches the peak. Now he towers with the mountain. He is home.

*

He sits with a book. It speaks to him, of kingdoms come and gone, of things that had been and would be, of people he might have known and would know, of things that were not here and not now. It takes him into a realm where what could not be is what could be, where what should not be is not. It helps him escape. It helps him live life where life should not be lived.

*