Peace
We used to wonder where war lived, what it was that made it so vile. And now we realize that we know where it lives, that it is inside ourselves ~ Albert Camus
An ache for peace. He sits flipping a coin through his thumbs, feeling the cold metal on his skin, spinning with a dexterity that is not rational compared to those around him. No one sitting nearby seems to notice, they are all caught in their own wonderings, just as he is caught in his. Perhaps that is why he is not being as careful as is his usual. Anyone with any eye or understanding that might look his way would know his nature.
His mind is lost within itself, has been that way for several turns of the moon. It is a sickness inside when the dark eclipses what is bright, slowly pushing what is lucid to one slim side. The unquiet in his mind is disrupted by an argument brewing. Two men just a table away, voices rising, fist on table thumping, chair skittering away, one of them standing. He has little idea or care what the dispute is over. One is pulling a knife. People in the Inn are forming sides, others pushing back to watch. No one making any move to arbitrate, no one gives a care for peace.
A fraction of a moment exists when there seems a quiet before fight, where breath is held in anticipation. In that intake, he drops the coin, letting it spin to settle. Placing his palms open and flat on the table he makes contact with the room, forcing that held air to remain in, all lungs to stop. He pushes himself to stand as all of the occupants in the Inn fall. No breath, no fight.
Retrieving his coin from the table, he walks from the Inn. As the doors close behind him, he releases them to breathing again, sputtering and coughing and moving to stand. Within him an ache subsists that forces unreasonable peace.
An ache for peace. He sits flipping a coin through his thumbs, feeling the cold metal on his skin, spinning with a dexterity that is not rational compared to those around him. No one sitting nearby seems to notice, they are all caught in their own wonderings, just as he is caught in his. Perhaps that is why he is not being as careful as is his usual. Anyone with any eye or understanding that might look his way would know his nature.
His mind is lost within itself, has been that way for several turns of the moon. It is a sickness inside when the dark eclipses what is bright, slowly pushing what is lucid to one slim side. The unquiet in his mind is disrupted by an argument brewing. Two men just a table away, voices rising, fist on table thumping, chair skittering away, one of them standing. He has little idea or care what the dispute is over. One is pulling a knife. People in the Inn are forming sides, others pushing back to watch. No one making any move to arbitrate, no one gives a care for peace.
A fraction of a moment exists when there seems a quiet before fight, where breath is held in anticipation. In that intake, he drops the coin, letting it spin to settle. Placing his palms open and flat on the table he makes contact with the room, forcing that held air to remain in, all lungs to stop. He pushes himself to stand as all of the occupants in the Inn fall. No breath, no fight.
Retrieving his coin from the table, he walks from the Inn. As the doors close behind him, he releases them to breathing again, sputtering and coughing and moving to stand. Within him an ache subsists that forces unreasonable peace.