šŸƒAmanda22Janeā¤

Ghost Writer
2021-01-21 14:06:07 (UTC)

Microstory.

My pain in allegory using a male character. We live in profoundly sin sick societies. I'm no stranger to this.

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Raw Hunger : Inside The Yearning.

The deepest place is pain. There is nothing so tangible as that which calls softly from the hidden netherworld until time renders it a screaming, broken child. And the gift knows its way home. Then this sunrise of peace bathes the heart in guilded rays of gratitude.


The idea comes to him as a thief in the middle of night.
Follows his bare footsteps down the high ceilinged hall to the door of his room. A low hung chandelier lights his way with crystal rainbows. He feels the colours kiss his face, his neck, his hair.

He reaches for the door handle and the idea emanates bright through his mind, and the fear vanishes. Once inside, his hand turns the lock on his bedroom door closing the world out.
The 12~foot high double doors leading onto his private terrace are wide open and a cold, lively breeze makes the curtains dance.
He strips naked, yet does it with care.
With every item of clothing that he divests his form of, a tear falls in the semi darkness.
With strong, gentle hands he folds his clothes in a neat pile on the chair beside him. He flexes his body as a sob escapes his lips. Lips which have tenderized so many lovers and caressed their souls with a pleasure unfeigned yet lined their doorways with pain beyond compare. Was it worth it?
Why now, the questioning?

Pain knocks harder at the fleshly portal of his heart ; wrenches away the key of compromise and smashes the walls of his lesser comprehension.
It makes perfect sense now.
This can't go on.
It's that or the nearest high bridge : a welcome end ; a new beginning, but to where? Of what?

His tall body is pure muscle and gentle bulk. Fat doesn't live here. It has long burned away with love, passion ; satiation.
His skin : a warm bronze, soft as butter left under a morning sun. His eyes : pale gold, now a burning vestibule of naked hatred and shame. A shame which cannot touch the deeper part of a soul too beautiful for this world.

His silent tears now annoint his muscular chest gently heaving, and only sun has touched him there in recent days. No feminine caress lingers on in his body's memory bank.
The account balance lies dangerously in emotional deficit.
His hands press on the place which
brands and breathes fire, forcing the pain deeper. It is literally, excruciating : like several knives have slit his insides to shreds from throat to gut.

Out of nowhere an unseen Power makes its presence known and from the tips of his toes, to the crown of his head, he feels a feeling of great light emanate and fill him. It surrounds his pain and holds it in a contained manner that he isn't capable of doing. And in the very moment that he understands this he finds himself kneeling down on the bedroom carpet and weeping openly. Where are the words to speak when the tears say it all? And he sobs until the pain is gone. Time has no relevance to this profoundly moving experience. Whoever is holding his broken soul together is not an entity that he has ever felt before in his life. The spirit is powerful in a loving way. So powerful is this feeling of love, that it has swept his anguish over the edge of his deepest sorrow and he knows that it has gone forever.

He speaks. The pain returns like sharp knives stabbing in searing hot slashes but he speaks his mind as the pain grows white hot. To the point of intolerance. His upper body bows under the weight of it all.
His voice grows urgent. Filled with a quiet desperation. A need for absolution seems as far from his reach as the moon is.
"Please...I know you are listening..you can hear me. Take this pain away and I will never return to the things that have caused it in the first place. I promise you that. This is hell."
More tears slip through closed eyes as the prayer trails off his tongue and sets his heart on fire in a new way. Breathing is difficult, words won't form fast enough, and a cold breeze moves his hair like an unseen hand ruffling it.
None of this he notices. All he feels is the flexing of his quadriceps as he leans back on his haunches to relieve the pain in his knees.

There is a singularity about him, that the figure hidden behind the curtains moving in the breeze, finds frightening. Even more disturbing is the very act that the man is engaged in.
She heard him crying as she walked in her garden next door and climbed over the wall and crossed his terrace to find him there. Kneeling on his bedroom floor, naked.
Her hands are poised mid-air with uncertainty and her eyes are fixed on his lips.

The sound of a man softly sobbing is not a common melody.
No wonder the gardens fell quiet. Not even a cricket chirping.
She wanted so badly to go to him ; hold him hard to her, wrap a woman's comfort around him, tell him it would be alright.
Some thing or some invisible force was holding her back. That's as far as her feet could go.
It didn't seem right to intrude upon this moment and she suddenly felt ashamed.
Before his sobbing renewed audibly, the figure behind the curtains was nowhere to be seen.

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