For justprompts: Canyons
Quote: "The greatest conflicts are not between two people, but between one person and himself." -Garth Brooks from post 4/30 - 5/14 (09)
The process itself was deceptively simple. Steady erosion, the slow carve and split to create the great divide between points. A's and b's of location with the variables of expanse and depth controlled by the diligence of time. Tectonic plates and fault lines need not apply.
"I could make a canyon," if I wanted to, the unspoken half vied for importance as she stared out at the golden dust that passed as desert on this world. Of course she could. She was a river, after all. And she wondered idly what it is that could make her want to.
For Simon, she would. Throw herself unthinkingly down ravines and tumble over herself to etch out safe harbors and smooth stones to rest on.
Crew, even. Too. A familial, if not intentional, addendum.
Divides, though, already existed. Crossed each other, intersected and intertwined and interchanged. Existed as the betweens, the gaps and distances packed with undoings and unsaids and unthoughts.
People separated by hundred-dimensional polyhedrons confined to a flat surface of fractals. Cracked cavernous crocodile skin with levels and layers, depth and dimension in and beyond itself where everyone gets a scale. Sometimes the space would be brimming with what could be found to close the distance. Straw Men in fancy clothes, anchors, pillars for suspension bridges of disbelief, ropes and sand bags.
But there she was. Staring out at desert dust, straddling two scales and running herself between it in a constant loop of bottomless progress. Who she was and who she is, divided by herself, by zero, by pi, by the dams where the floodgates had crumbled into nothingness. By left and then right in an attempt to solve for x and why. River would have to choose a side, eventually. Or risk falling into herself so far not even Simon could fish her out again...
She leaned down and wrote an equation in the loose ground:
Y = 25.00(R/RA3)*宁静
After which she underlined it. Three times, in the hopes that it would illuminate balance. Beginning, middle, end. Already the wind was erasing the lines and swoops of her writing, but she had it memorized. Could carry it back with her, commit it to paper, maybe. Map out the internal conflict so she could navigate.
It was a plan, at least.
The process itself was deceptively simple. Steady erosion, the slow carve and split to create the great divide between points. A's and b's of location with the variables of expanse and depth controlled by the diligence of time. Tectonic plates and fault lines need not apply.
"I could make a canyon," if I wanted to, the unspoken half vied for importance as she stared out at the golden dust that passed as desert on this world. Of course she could. She was a river, after all. And she wondered idly what it is that could make her want to.
For Simon, she would. Throw herself unthinkingly down ravines and tumble over herself to etch out safe harbors and smooth stones to rest on.
Crew, even. Too. A familial, if not intentional, addendum.
Divides, though, already existed. Crossed each other, intersected and intertwined and interchanged. Existed as the betweens, the gaps and distances packed with undoings and unsaids and unthoughts.
People separated by hundred-dimensional polyhedrons confined to a flat surface of fractals. Cracked cavernous crocodile skin with levels and layers, depth and dimension in and beyond itself where everyone gets a scale. Sometimes the space would be brimming with what could be found to close the distance. Straw Men in fancy clothes, anchors, pillars for suspension bridges of disbelief, ropes and sand bags.
But there she was. Staring out at desert dust, straddling two scales and running herself between it in a constant loop of bottomless progress. Who she was and who she is, divided by herself, by zero, by pi, by the dams where the floodgates had crumbled into nothingness. By left and then right in an attempt to solve for x and why. River would have to choose a side, eventually. Or risk falling into herself so far not even Simon could fish her out again...
She leaned down and wrote an equation in the loose ground:
Y = 25.00(R/RA3)*宁静
After which she underlined it. Three times, in the hopes that it would illuminate balance. Beginning, middle, end. Already the wind was erasing the lines and swoops of her writing, but she had it memorized. Could carry it back with her, commit it to paper, maybe. Map out the internal conflict so she could navigate.
It was a plan, at least.