Tarnish: Bridge Over Clouds

He opened his eyes, slowly growing accustomed to light, colors, and shapes. Again. Repetition. Life is such. The repetition is part of the fun. He hadn’t slept too well, finding himself constantly moving from side to side trying to find a perfect sleeping position. Quite unusual. At home I used to be more relaxed (could just drift to sleep) [no need for the extra trickle of thinking]. Nothing, no one is perfect; or so we are taught by our masters, for we all, whether we like it or not, have masters... What is true and what is not? That night he had, eventually, grown tried enough to pass into the unconscious. The struggle had eventually paid off.

He also found himself prejudging the surroundings, thinking briefly of the lucid simplicity in sight. Generally he felt indifferent to the town and its people. It seemed like a suitable place to live in and the politics not too much to bear. Thus it was not this that upset him, but the constant movement and lack of stability. He needed time to adjust, learn, and space to see, but, while this, at first, seemed like an awful current, it, secondly, felt justly good. An inch of his soul, an inch of his manhood, romanticized and vigorous, felt the need for enlightenment. He hated to think that this was just growing up and responsibilities forming. Forming responses.

Pavel walked out into a street. Step step. Comfort. Look up and down. Sky. Ground. Oole had told him that he and Irlea were in need of spiritual bonding, which apparently took hours of meditation for trying to find the Source. They also didn’t need his help. And he was not looking forward to touching inner energy with another for this sent a shiver up his spine. Enough touching the enticing energy of material objects. Wonder what all this magic learning will bring me?

There was also not going to be any trouble for there was no way of getting lost, the designed simplicity of the streets being almost perfect. As if design was ever enough. Never naught, enough. Enough.

Every step he took seemed to take him past another inn.

Taking steps. One.

He saw a brothel more than once. Two. He saw women pulling their skirts up for him and other men. Three. And he walked on trying to separate sense from desire. Try it (try it) - whispered wind wavered wasp. Ten.

Sexuality. Fifteen. What is it? Don’t know. Take steps. Try it. Some.

Sixty-six. Male prostitutes. What are they doing? Point -

The way he was heading didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. No way. No end. Nothing.

House - person inside, lonely as can be, one room only, smoking, drifting indefinitely, depressed, disabled, a decomposed father.

House - children using the staircase, playing, mind, unlearning, future unknown, undisciplined disease.

He saw another inn and went inside (having Oole’s caution always at the back of his mind). The light inside the inn was quite dim in comparison with the light of the outside. He noticed tobacco rising, rather, swirling, up against the low, bent, ceiling. Smoke. The barman looked back at him. He was quite old and possessed a remarkable stub of a beard protruding forward. Could poke me in the eye with it. Pavel only remembered that he carried no money after ordering ale; so, uncertain of what to do decided to will the appropriate sum to appear in his pocket. Stupid. Why am I so stupid? What was I thinking? No point. No use. Got to try. But this was a harder, different, task from before. He didn’t want money flying across the room but it actually metamorphosing into his pocket.