LJ Idol 2011; topic one
First entry for LJ Idol! To all the non-participants on my f-list, non-contestants are allowed to vote, so head on over here to take a wander through the entries and vote for as many as you'd like. :3 Voting poll will be open when the topic deadline passes.
When you pray, move your feet
When I climb I soar. The rope is rough under my hands, the air around me empty, the branches over me solid and waiting. My movement makes me sway, makes my arms burn, my feet slip, my breathing raw. I reach the branches. I swing from branch to branch on the rope and may as well be flying; I climb without the aid of ropes at all and I’m on a pirate ship. I’m unafraid of the angry, stinging ants whose tree I’ve invaded. I breathe deep and smell mangos. I’m a flier, a ninja, a pirate.
My world is full. I move.
We leave for another house, one with a smaller yard. It has more trees, but fewer places to be something else. The trees are tiny, like a fishing sloop after a pirate frigate. I go out to find other places to be something else. I find in the schoolyard a dirt pile which becomes an island, a place where dragons and vampires live. I have friends and we fight the evil things together, running the island with our legs straining and hard breathing and shouts. We’re adventurers, we’re defenders, we’re magical creatures.
Our world is full, and we move.
The magical island vanishes. We get older. The schoolyard shrinks to the size of my house's yard, and I find more friends. We sit and talk, and tell each other about the worlds inside our heads. We tell jokes, bad jokes, insulting jokes. We sing songs from childhood movies. We laugh at everything and nothing, roaming from our chosen landmarks on a hill, on a bench, against a wall.
Slowly we move.
A friend shows me a new world in the park near her house. It has a rope to swing on and mulberries to pick; big bushes to make hideouts under and a path that winds between the trees; a trickling creek where tadpoles live and drainage tunnels to dodge the roads. We’re put through tests of courage that leave us exhausted and have to forage for food when we’re hungry. We hide from foes and sneak through enemy castles. We race from one side of the world to the other, just because we can, and then flop on the grass and gasp for air.
It’s a universe, and we’re moving.
The bushes are gone. There are no trees to hide behind. No secret bases. No rope over the ditch that became a ravine. No hill gowned in lily-pads. It’s all been cut down, uprooted-developed. I have to focus on school exams. My friend leaves for another house.
My world is smaller. I’ve stopped moving.
School is over. No work or study for me. Instead I write and find others who write, in a place where nothing exists except words and videos and pictures which may or may not be real. Like the worlds inside our heads. We tell each other stories. We teach each other how to build our worlds with words, how to draw others into what we see. The laptop is my gateway.
My world is big again, but I’m not moving.
I have school. I’m trying to find work. I have new friends in the cyberspace, ones I build stories with. Sometimes people leave. Sometimes new people come. We tell a story together, a story that makes me want to cry and sing and sometimes hit something. I have a world in my head, one I share through my laptop. It has expansive far-off lands filled with supernatural beings, with beautiful settings, adventures always around the next bend and a culture just waiting to be explored.
My world is huge and I have a place, but I’m not moving.
Conflict. People who don’t agree, characters who don’t get along, lines being blurred between what’s real and what isn’t. I feel too much-feel rage and sadness on behalf of people who aren’t real, panic over events that happen only in the world in our heads. I can’t step away. What if I miss something in the story? I don’t want to leave. Sometimes I don’t want to stay.
It’s been a long time since I moved at all.
Shut the lid; leave the laptop behind. Pull on my shoes. Abandon the house. Let the music play. Breathe deep and remember the mangos, remember the ropes and trees and running headlong through a winding creek while dodging the water. Watch the world; watch the purple flowers and the curling vines; watch the passing cars and hear the horns. Look at the sky. Don’t stop at the rain. Get cold in the wind. Warm up with a run.
I will move.
When you pray, move your feet
When I climb I soar. The rope is rough under my hands, the air around me empty, the branches over me solid and waiting. My movement makes me sway, makes my arms burn, my feet slip, my breathing raw. I reach the branches. I swing from branch to branch on the rope and may as well be flying; I climb without the aid of ropes at all and I’m on a pirate ship. I’m unafraid of the angry, stinging ants whose tree I’ve invaded. I breathe deep and smell mangos. I’m a flier, a ninja, a pirate.
My world is full. I move.
We leave for another house, one with a smaller yard. It has more trees, but fewer places to be something else. The trees are tiny, like a fishing sloop after a pirate frigate. I go out to find other places to be something else. I find in the schoolyard a dirt pile which becomes an island, a place where dragons and vampires live. I have friends and we fight the evil things together, running the island with our legs straining and hard breathing and shouts. We’re adventurers, we’re defenders, we’re magical creatures.
Our world is full, and we move.
The magical island vanishes. We get older. The schoolyard shrinks to the size of my house's yard, and I find more friends. We sit and talk, and tell each other about the worlds inside our heads. We tell jokes, bad jokes, insulting jokes. We sing songs from childhood movies. We laugh at everything and nothing, roaming from our chosen landmarks on a hill, on a bench, against a wall.
Slowly we move.
A friend shows me a new world in the park near her house. It has a rope to swing on and mulberries to pick; big bushes to make hideouts under and a path that winds between the trees; a trickling creek where tadpoles live and drainage tunnels to dodge the roads. We’re put through tests of courage that leave us exhausted and have to forage for food when we’re hungry. We hide from foes and sneak through enemy castles. We race from one side of the world to the other, just because we can, and then flop on the grass and gasp for air.
It’s a universe, and we’re moving.
The bushes are gone. There are no trees to hide behind. No secret bases. No rope over the ditch that became a ravine. No hill gowned in lily-pads. It’s all been cut down, uprooted-developed. I have to focus on school exams. My friend leaves for another house.
My world is smaller. I’ve stopped moving.
School is over. No work or study for me. Instead I write and find others who write, in a place where nothing exists except words and videos and pictures which may or may not be real. Like the worlds inside our heads. We tell each other stories. We teach each other how to build our worlds with words, how to draw others into what we see. The laptop is my gateway.
My world is big again, but I’m not moving.
I have school. I’m trying to find work. I have new friends in the cyberspace, ones I build stories with. Sometimes people leave. Sometimes new people come. We tell a story together, a story that makes me want to cry and sing and sometimes hit something. I have a world in my head, one I share through my laptop. It has expansive far-off lands filled with supernatural beings, with beautiful settings, adventures always around the next bend and a culture just waiting to be explored.
My world is huge and I have a place, but I’m not moving.
Conflict. People who don’t agree, characters who don’t get along, lines being blurred between what’s real and what isn’t. I feel too much-feel rage and sadness on behalf of people who aren’t real, panic over events that happen only in the world in our heads. I can’t step away. What if I miss something in the story? I don’t want to leave. Sometimes I don’t want to stay.
It’s been a long time since I moved at all.
Shut the lid; leave the laptop behind. Pull on my shoes. Abandon the house. Let the music play. Breathe deep and remember the mangos, remember the ropes and trees and running headlong through a winding creek while dodging the water. Watch the world; watch the purple flowers and the curling vines; watch the passing cars and hear the horns. Look at the sky. Don’t stop at the rain. Get cold in the wind. Warm up with a run.
I will move.