The tension is building.
It’s that tangible feeling you can almost taste. Energy is literally sizzling, coursing through the bodies of the closeness of it all. A shift to the right, back again. The majesty of the scene around you steals your breath far away. Ears tuned to what lies ahead and never wanting to go back from where you left. Nothing good will ever come from looking back.
The wanted relief refuses to come. Lying just ahead but never within grasp. A clean break.
Begging for a clean break….because a fracture will shatter your soul; undo what has so painfully been sewn together. That claustrophobic panic overwhelms even the best of masks. Oh why! The eyes.
The eyes….the beauty of the people, and the ultimate traitor. Benedict Arnold seems a saint. A glimpse into the soul where ultimate beauty is found. A perfect love that is being refused, maybe by accident. Something that cannot be seen by the possessor.
It will come. The rain will finally soak into the desert ground and transform.
Looking upwards to the clouds that have consumed all thought. Close your eyes…feel the fresh clean feeling washing over your skin, down your fingertips, and crashing to the ground. It is realized.
Relief.
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