Veracious Repentance

[Zonty 994]

 

 

The tranquil glade welcomed him. Leisure sun blissfully gawked from its aureate throne in unstained firmaments. Amidst the meadows he had come across, a copse of willowy woods crooned over the untreaden earth, unmooring quiet groans to the whiffle of blithe winds that danced about.

He found asylum beneath the canopy of those lithe trees. Not because he loathed the sun, but simply because shade was better when the yellow eye was at its summit in the summer. His hulking silhouette leant against a sole great bough that loomed obtruded by its epigones. A scant cloak of crude make pressed against the bark. A hoary shawl skinned off some beast he had wrangled down in the time of his wandering. Its hide lay now, with some nodules along its slicked surface, and a pair of ivory tusks crowning the triumphant’s brow.

 

Wandering. 

 

The thought echoed him. It was like this once-plain notion turned inscrutable. The wind sighed, and a whirligig of leaves curled around him. It ineluctably caught his gaze and distracted his thought; and then it settled, it took some moments to return from bunk to sense. His red, refined muscle tensed, digits reverently coiling about an instrument in his grip. This thing had grafted unto his psyche. He was no aficionado in the world of musicians, nor was he the best raconteur. But this life of wayward bard, of carefree traveler that skulked through arboreal expanses and vast leas have supplanted what he once was in entirety. Maybe it was consternation. A fear of responsibility, should he ever strive for something grandiose. He was content, first, with his decision. Nought was of worry; he ambled whither he whimmed, espoused his own, crude and unembellished thoughts. A syncresis of rumours and not quite fathomed shards of the more codified principles. But before long something stirred in the deepest bowels of his consciousness. A rakish seed of contempt, which tangled his mind with its protuberances further with each month. 

 

Now it loomed above him like a great mountain. His glance trailed his own arms, his red physiognomy, whose meaning had retreated into some long-forfeited recess of his memory. His ivory promontories that jagged from his jaws shivered. Who was he? He thought.

 

Before he abandoned any vestige of culture, before he forsook resemblance to his or any other people. What was it that defined him? 

 

Those thought gabbled into a din of drivel, too dissonant and garbled to glean candid thesis in this amuck stampede of emotions. His own voice catcalled him. Dubbed him weak. Daubed shame across his obscene choices.

He could only barely endure this self-objuragation, and so he hauled himself out of this deep castigation. His gaze latched onto some sussuring shrub. Driven by this already half-exhumed backbone to make hard decisions, he thought to himself, of the things he extolled. Valiancy? Intellect? Propensity to do the better? His squalid nails scratched across an itching patch of skin. Then, his eyes avert back to the laund. Some louche critters cavorted in the tall grass. 

 

Perhaps, it is time I not only repent for my choices, but geed myself to amend where I erred.

 

Some auspicious thought finally dawned his stultified mind. 

The hesitance bewearied him. Beyond an acceptable measure. So he pulled himself from this rickety lounge, an interlude between his forest-shambling. His thoughts, no longer constrained to a shoal of secular constraints. He sought more. Yearned more. And this enrichment he set out to find, across a voluminous remnants of the slowly crumbing realms.