Birchwood. [Short]

The moment was dry and sultry. The taste of birchwood, if that is a taste, was on his tongue. Abandon was like a racehorse, like a Mustang that could not be tamed, running free and wild. Notions. Predilictions. Incompetencies. Escape.
Birchwood you trickster you. He could feel the moss slowly growing inside him. His stomach clenched and there was a pressure to it. Burp. A belch like the joy of god. What majesty this was. Sounds like the structure of a supernova, suspense like the secrets of the deep sea, settlements of the first settlers, while the unsettling was setting him free.
Paper to pen, the ink was ready, write now while the iron is hot. Every movement of arm, each curl and gesture like the dance of jubilation bursting forth from its dam. Aching, racing, palpitating, the heart knew it lived in chance. What, was this…. This arcing flow, this weave of unknown knowledge, floating like morning mist, like the spray the spray of rushing waves on rock. His feet bounced like eternal springs, his legs trembled in the might of their own power, the knowledge of their strength overcoming any residual sense of dullness, the portals of duality were opened like gates of gold, the streets of white roses awaited, just as the doves flew upon the blue sky of his thoughts. I am a dreamer!
He stood up in exacerbation, the upward sprouting of the energy contained within the seed of his life. I am the sprout of mightiness, cried the lilies that ran through his veins, the jungle of vaporous air filled his breath as the syncing was now transfused with his conscience. Around him were the maps, each country it’s own color, every borderline shone clear, you shall not pass without knowing you are now in our land! He stared at the marks of the rivers and their journey like creeping vines to ocean of freedom.
Yes! It was upon the sea. The sea was the union of trial and strength, of testament and courage. He stood upon his wood grained chair like the mast head of his sailing vessel, he held his balance while leaning to stretch the length of his body. The map and all its details danced like the rhythm of life. Up and down, back and forth, both rising and falling eternally, shaping and shifting in all and each perspective. Oh your audacity, birchwood. Oh what vision! He summoned all the stillness he could muster to trace the symbols of alphabetical meaning. He chronicled his sights of sound, his taste of memories, he wrote, “Question yourself or Believe in yourself”.
The message in arcane Greek phonetic numerals resounded within the caverns of his emptiness like the sounding of trumpets. The banner of his heart scrawled it with pride.
Never before has it been seen, never before had it been measured, the capability of man. The qualities of ever changing facial expression,  the resilience of cock roaches cannot compare to the ever lasting tenacity of the human spirit.

The bond that one sows within themself, the bond that one does endeavor to form with another, the acts of a stranger can make a friend, the act of a friend can make them your enemy, enemies can change shape, the lens in which you look through can get foggy, fall, and break. What is a friend? What is love? What are the birds flying in the sky consumed by? Swirling, twirling, diving, preoccupied, pre-agenda, queries spun like the tide pools whirl. Each face of disappointment and regret, of anger and remorse, tumulted in constant somersaults, his hands over his eyes,  his face in his palms. I’m sorry! His cry was that of the fawn who had grown to be the buck, who had seen the trails of the misbegotten but followed along far enough that his forged path was just the same. What is love? What is a friend? What lens is it you look through?
A stillness settled like the petals of a seasonal tree. Oh birchwood, you are war for a warrior,  you are life in a song. His eyes opened not to the reaching forest, but to the diagrams of colored carpet, the incandescence of filament light, the rising of a colored carpets grass,  the fading in and dimming out of light that reacted to emotion. Perhaps ones divine name knows the lyre at every level of the heart, but it is the bastions of bravery that drive the drums. He walked with a command he had only rarely known, to the mirror covered in white cotton cloth. He was sure now he would know what love was, what friendship was, for it is something that first resonates within. As he pulled back the white cotton cloth as if it were the veil of his soulmate, he stood with the posture of the universes good graces. His eyes traced the outlines of his features,  from chin to ear, from the wrinkles of the eye, to the wrinkle of the lip.

He accepted the one who he was, With love,
As he met the one who he’d be.

He smiled at the voice of the void, 
Birchwood,
You’ve set me free.

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