Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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He’d traveled because there was nothing left for him at home. Alec often wondered about the sky and how the clouds migrated from there to here, and he’d watch the trails of jets high above dissipate in the late evening sky, the sun’s gorgeous indifference coloring the world in bold magenta as the paths to elsewhere stayed bright and golden, as if hungry for ruby slippers and tin men with no heart. And here he was, heartless, worthless, hung out to dry in the waning years of life as if he’d been sentenced by a God jealous of his handle on the human experience. Because Alec wasn’t one to give up. He wouldn’t just roll over and play dead when the guillotine made its clean slice and he was dearly departed from his life. The work and pain of yesterday fueled his lust for tomorrow, and somewhere among those whispy cotton swabs dabbing the wounds of the sky was his future. Elsewhere. Not here. And he would climb onboard and find love, complete and sound; full and endearing. He would let his ears pop and his heart rise because on the other side of the trip the landing gear would deploy, buckle, roll and stop his trajectory into the new. Goddamn, he believed in the atmosphere and the limitless space between where he’d started and where he would end up. All he needed was enough fuel and a reason to take to the clouds and follow their wisdom. Alec was airborne and his heart would guide him into safe landing as long as he believed; as long as he trusted it as the pilot of what’s next and what’s better. As long as he had faith in a new destination that would heal the crash and burn of a failed past.


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