Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes

He was turned purposeless after that day.

His eyes exploded into the back of skull, who turned into liquid that flowed into and out of his arms. His grin touched the nape of his neck and wrapped back around his head until the ends of his thin lips touched each other once more.

 There was no sanctitude from the constant noise that now deafened him, or from the scag that convinced him of the verity in his sorry grasps towards an imagined pocket of air, that to him, resembled the purple western sun.

Regardant of a brightly scattered array of color in his perception, he found 6 more that he hadn’t seen until just now – and won’t again until next week.

This is no purpose – yet he is clueless to this; he doesn’t know the best is behind him – for to him, it is nearly in his grasp.

Now he spends his weekends alone in his room, which is covered with debris from the disasters of the near past – fights of companions he never knew the name, and papers littered with the name he has now ceased to call himself.

There’s no formality in a room full of anonymous faces – it’d be pointless.

One weekend, alone in this room, he found himself broke, by the circumstance of what he held between his digits, what floated through the water in his gaze.

And he knew exactly what to do.

That night long ago wherein he was told to “Live a little”, that night wherein he was told to “Let loose”, that night wherein his future was declared.

Yes, now he has lived – too much, take mind. And he knows it.

Ironically, he’s more rigid than he’s ever been now – his arms bang off the door frames as he’s being carried out of the room.

            What did he see before then? Who will see it next?