(no subject)
It was the silence of the moors that made them majestic. The quietness that hung over them was even larger than their size, and twice as impressive. Sometimes the winds rippling the heather made a faint hiss, but for the most part the movements were soundless and detached from the stillness that surrounded them.
He'd said he would take her up here, one day. He'd never gotten around to it: but that wasn't his fault. He didn't make work for himself, it just piled up in front of him. When he concentrated fully his mental state was strange, and he felt himself surrounded by a coil of numbers. It was then that he'd feel there was no light on him: she'd made him feel different, somehow.
Up here, the numbers felt very small and unimportant. It didn't matter how many buds of heather there were up here, nor what pressure he exerted on them as he walked along. Of course, when he got back to work it'd be different again. Then, currency would seem all-important, the same way that small meaningless details seemed important to him when he was drunk. Yes, he was sober now, for the first time in ages - but he'd lose his clear head any moment and think that the postcard scenery had made him sentimental.
He wished he had a hobby like photography and had brought a camera with him. If she was here, and he had a camera, they could have taken a picture of themselves lying in the heather. What would she look like, a decade on? All these thoughts were rushing into his head. He never thought any more. Why? Because proper thinking took energy and when he got home all he wanted to do was relax. For the first time in a decade, he realised that he was lonely.
All this would never have happened if he hadn't shouted at his boss. He'd been told to take a break. At first he'd been afraid what would go on while he was gone, but now that seemed very small as well. Were these things connected, his behaviour and his thoughts of her? He brushed the thought away: he was here because he'd been stressed. The economy was shrinking and down-sizing brought with it certain unpleasant duties.
Better to not dwell on the past - he'd never been that type anyway. He'd worked extremely hard to get where he was. As he looked out over the moors and at the mountains beyond them, he felt himself above it all: for he, unlike it, was considered effective.