In the hunger of the land, where sun and soil mixed with water and great chemistry pervaded the answer to larger questions with a kind of indefatigable disdain for logic, he stood. Never one for vague pronouncements to the nature of things – the climbing trees and the scent of the verdant reach, the clawfoot vallies between resting snow-capped mountains and the clear air that seemed to dispell not only his existence, but any other’s – he wasn’t one to say he loved it all. The love simply sat patiently inside of his impatient heart, and as he stayed fixed like a proverbial stick in the mud he wondered why here there was calm and serenity while he was denied it everywhere else. The answer was of course that this was always here; the withdrawn sea, the polished stones, the dancing light. They lived always and like the words to his favorite song or the memory of that beautiful dance he shared with a stranger, it was always waiting to quiet his worry. No one else waited. At that moment, he undestood what made each beat of his heart sear with pain, as if each chamber were ripped from the other. He hurt because no one else was reliable, at least not in a way that the sky, the water or the land were. At least not in the way memory was. And he cursed all of it, and the way each reflected the face of his yearning within their bold shapes and wonder, as if great mirrors of deference to his need for complete. No one can be this, he concluded. And yet that four chambered core of him wailed longing into his veins, and ocean drops stung at his eyes when he thought of what he’d had, what he’d lost and what he hoped for. The world looked back at him with ideals, and he would accept nothing less.
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