Free Writing #1

2/16/07

Call It Back


Call it back. You shout its name at the top of your lungs. It doesn't hear you. Call it back. You shout louder, your face flushes with the effort. Did it hear you? Call it back. Every bit of air in your lungs works in unison; your head aches and stars burst into vision. It was never listening. Your voice trails off, your scream becomes a sigh, heavy, dragging your knees into the cold ground. Cold. How can everything be so cold, when the sun shone so brightly only moments ago. It's because the cold is always waiting. Lurking. Lusting. It knows that no matter how bright the sun may shine, it must always follow it's set path. But the cold has nowhere to go, nowhere to be, except everywhere you are. And as soon as the sun's golden rays drip nonchalantly out of view, it takes over. Your world belongs to it now and it's grasp is tight. So run, run after that golden sun. Don't ever stop to catch your breath, because it won't stop for you. It won't turn when you call it back. But if you are so unlucky as to stop, and cold's icy cloak pases over you entirely, turn. Turn, face the monster, and endure. While the darkness may seem to last forever, eventually the sun will come back. And nothing is more glorious than the sight of it's golden rays stretching, reaching, clamoring to your rescue.

~Asclepius