• undergroundcrowds

It took his Breath Away

Sam was running, now, down the stream with his shoes abandoned on the banks. His only thought was that he wanted to experience all there was to experience. He wanted to know what the fisherman looked for so intently. He wanted to realise that kind of urgency for himself. Sam might have stubbed his toe on a rock or two, and he had to duck under a few branches. He almost slipped into the stream altogether, but he remembered none of these things when he caught sight of the river that flowed in front of him. It took his breath away.

He, there, paused. The roar of the rushing water overwhelmed his ears. The brightness and clarity of the shimmering cascades almost hurt his eyes, but he just knew, with eery inescapable feeling, that he did not belong. The freedom of the flowing water and the cripple hearted boy were altogether different. He never before felt such a vast difference between himself and something or someone else, the reality overwhelmed him. He heaved a heavy sigh, fell to the soggy ground, and wept like he had never wept before.

The tears were a constant flow, just like the river. He felt sure everything around, if it was living, was uncomfortable at the sight of him, but he didn’t care. All this distance, all the pain, all the treachery, now, all the climatic disappointment? So close, yet so so so far. It could not be. It just could not be.

“You there!”

Sam froze, wiping his tears from his eyes hastily. He looked up to see a familiar figure, with fishing pole in hand, starring at him with his same piercing eyes.

“Hi, ummm….” it wasn’t his stuttering that was emerging again, it was utter discomfort. He had no clear idea of what to say, or how he could explain himself. There was no explaining himself. He wanted to get up and run, in fact, he didn't know what exactly kept him nailed to the soggy ground in a huge heap of discomfort.

“I see you found my river,” the fisherman squatted, it seemed, to peer further into Sam’s uncomfortable soul “...sort of.”

“What do you mean, ‘sort of’,” Sam was pretty sure he was starring right at the object of the conversation, therefore, had found it.

The fisherman grunted, “it’s not meant to be starred at.”

Sam was confused.

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