(no subject)
I've come to rest, over rushed tires and caffeine, at the place my father calls home. The walls and floors have changed, and he's really put his heart into this place- it's as though he wants to stay here, to grow roots and whatnot. And I suppose it leaves me feeling... Happy.
He seems happier than the last time I saw him, with his unintentionally troubled eyes. He seems able to relax a bit more than I've ever seen him, and I suppose that's good. He can actually take off his boots when he comes home, and can actually sit down to watch a movie now and then as opposed to falling asleep to movies, so I hear.
Meanwhile, my brother is as energetic as ever. He's grown sly and smarter, always smarter- I'm waiting for the day that he is able to out-wit me, out-argue me. I silently hope for this day to come, every day.
Alas, distance. And despite the distance, being close.
It's honestly strange when I'm up there- to be on the mountain, looking down at the city. To feel the bitter wind and snow, to stare down and the bustling world just down the way. To watch the patterns and flows of the ants below, weaving a vibrant pattern- in reality, that's my job. To watch the patterns, and point them out. From absurdity to process to breath, it's what I do best.
But, the mountain gets tiring. Those with me don't look around themselves, only to the city- and even then, to the blocks and districts they find most rewarding. At night, when the watching stops and the stars come out, there's no connection. Just a bunch of people, hoping to see some glimmer of truth in what they see below them. These people are towers without doors- or at least, it feels that way sometimes.
It feels good to be warmed and watched over in the city, but I won't stray from the mountain for too long; there's more I still want to see.
He seems happier than the last time I saw him, with his unintentionally troubled eyes. He seems able to relax a bit more than I've ever seen him, and I suppose that's good. He can actually take off his boots when he comes home, and can actually sit down to watch a movie now and then as opposed to falling asleep to movies, so I hear.
Meanwhile, my brother is as energetic as ever. He's grown sly and smarter, always smarter- I'm waiting for the day that he is able to out-wit me, out-argue me. I silently hope for this day to come, every day.
Alas, distance. And despite the distance, being close.
It's honestly strange when I'm up there- to be on the mountain, looking down at the city. To feel the bitter wind and snow, to stare down and the bustling world just down the way. To watch the patterns and flows of the ants below, weaving a vibrant pattern- in reality, that's my job. To watch the patterns, and point them out. From absurdity to process to breath, it's what I do best.
But, the mountain gets tiring. Those with me don't look around themselves, only to the city- and even then, to the blocks and districts they find most rewarding. At night, when the watching stops and the stars come out, there's no connection. Just a bunch of people, hoping to see some glimmer of truth in what they see below them. These people are towers without doors- or at least, it feels that way sometimes.
It feels good to be warmed and watched over in the city, but I won't stray from the mountain for too long; there's more I still want to see.