Stopping Will Prove You Have Seen More ("fiction piece")

CHAPTER I.
The sun awakens and unclothes herself. Lying beneath, the sea stares up and mirrors her wakeful sensitivity. He tries to look into her, but her exposure burns, causing the fixed stare to break soon after. A world is contained in her eyes, the sea can tell. He loyally waits under the blank sky who has a tendency to wear a demure nightgown, appear transparent and starkly stare at him—if not, through him. Listen to her eyes, the sky whispers through the wind’s gate of privacy. The sea stays, unmoved, until a shiver of suspense capsizes the calm he naturally exudes. He wants to hear of the sightings the sun is shared when she sleeps inside the moon. It is the sun’s omniscient darkness that the sea is restlessly sleepless from.

High on her esteem, the supercilious sun carries on aloof. Low in expectation, the sea stays adrift. The sky, suspended between both affairs, tries to maintain an exterior impression of passivity. But the conflicting relation between the sun and sea causes a rise in tension that affects the world at large. On edge, the surfaces of the sea and sky’s bodies rub against one another’s. A scene is sparked and sets in the sky’s screen—held against the mind’s eye.

CHAPTER II.
I stand in the track of silence watching how wounds transform imagery. Having stopped, I see the way a mood decorates the landscape of skin—reconditioning an appearance—changing the spectator’s impression, expression and at times, unfavorably, his reaction to and of it. Emotions strain the soul—within one and struggling to arrive out, they are revealed and acknowledged as the scars of experience. I see the sun suffer from the condition of her current climate. She extends her color, as if it were a desperate longing to be realized. The sky carries this burden on her shoulders. And continues to collect all the sun’s tears, so they remain from falling onto the face of the sea.

Taking notice that I am the only one that has stopped to see, I think of everyone outside of me. They are now passing, and will not be able to think up these things I see in experience. Imaginations are not self-influential—personal actuality is responsible for the genre guise of “fiction”. The power of vision exists after one sees to know. Those who are passing will know less.

CHAPTER III.
Strangers fall out of space, just as the city burns around me. I am a lone—and left with the one person I know is the single soul that can see me, truly. Wrapped within a world, time stretches and scars palms with lines of years. I could be here forever and not know. One deep sigh is all that stirs before and behind us—but between is silence. We have not heard the noise, just like one does not hear what he is use to. It is a similar feeling and so, we are kept distant from it, although it remains right outside our ears.

On the spine of the hill, I am with you watching everything change. In place and staring out at space, we will later in time essentially be able to share similar stories, found particularly symptomatic by plot—that will be our greatest, if not only, resemblance. But to think that we will forever be woven together just by being here and sharing this time in place!—how romantic a connection can be seen to be. I will have us as is to keep, as long as I can remember now.

CHAPTER IIII.
Keeping your face forward, your mind turns to me. Let us talk. Yes, let us. No, not at each other, but together let us talk with one another. What should we speak of? I do not care about what should, but what can be said. The times of sharing thought and disclosing conceptual experiences have been distant between us—so far behind what I have been knowing, that I feel like I have forgotten how to speak sensibly. You see that I am flushed by this insecurity, so you speak in place of me. I wish only to hear you. You speak to everyone but me. I want to know as much as they know and then, more. I laugh, purposefully, to distract the sadness of your sentence that is kept ruminating in my ears. I do not know what can be said for me. Relatively I have changed, but my eyes are still consumed by and with you and my tongue is still burdened with the weight of your taste. Maybe that is why it is difficult to speak. I feel my feelings as I think them—and they are heavy with you. I hear nothing from you for what feels like awhile after I have spoken. And then you turn to me entirely and say “You have some white in your eyes.”

I open them and see I am surrounded by white light, which startles my sight. I fear I am floating within an imagined city and suspended between nothing and no one real. Taking the chance, I turn and see you safely sleeping behind the morning that has already woken before me. Coming to clearer consciousness, I remember what started and how I have ended here. I laugh, lifting sleep from my eyes. We are in a hammock, swinging between states of rest, high above the sea and somewhere below the sun. A boat moves us toward the final destination, the sky. It all seems beyond me. But the sky is clear, the sea is calm and the sun is aglow so I know today is happy. And I feel I can think this forever, too.