Rage

Prologue

             The sullen trees of this area stood far apart, as though they could sense the dismay within their limbs. The leaves painted themselves in green too faint to be of earth, as the wind slithered between their extended fingers that branched off upward towards the open, sunless atmosphere. For only the fingers of trees pointed to the truth of this place; lightness, darkness, they had all shown same. The land was olive in its display, rising and slumping like post coital curves. The air was thick with stillness, sheeting any figure that moved through it. In the silence, a hiss of breeze lugged any loose debris from one distance to another. If the breath of wind had respired, it was unforgiving to any figure that intruded unsolicited, and this impassibility reminded the figure that its form was foreign; disembodied and not welcomed. The ground, hardened with the roots of silver birch, did not curve into the soles of the passing, and for this the soles answered with haste in their steps. The birds did not sing, and any animals that occupied the nearby russet forests did not wander with curiosity as they would in more buoyant areas of the country. In such a scenery, the only softness was hidden indistinctly in the hills that showed no signs of longing. The residents echoed the attitudes of their environment—the residents were indistinguishable from the few florae that made their preference for darkness known. Most kept to themselves, only showing interest in their neighboring bodies during times of community gatherings. The sun was not a regular, and it showed in the deprivation of the shrubs and vegetation.

      When one visits this area, they soon become famished for warmth and retreat into the city. Those that stay often share a silent mutuality with the trees. There was a slice in the bleakness that seemed to stretch on soundlessly, that even those deaf to beauty could recognize. The laughter of children at play, keen and high pitched. They spun in their high-waist trousers, button downs, and worn uniforms, laughing as they tickled their palettes with sweets. They chased one another with redden faces, full lungs, granulated knee scabs and flailing arms. The ground beneath them seemed to take on a new color, lessening into a more vibrant jade and the leaves crunched under their unsnapped shoes with every twirl. For a moment, it seemed as though the fog may ease just enough to let the sun have a peek at who stirred so happily beneath it. Young children filled the absences with vivacity here, which made them distinct from their adult guardians. They did not suffer from the deficiencies of their surroundings, but instead embraced it with wonder and utility. They sought not difference, but substance. 

      It was their detachment that brought brief bliss to the neighborhood. Their naïveté that could generate a foreign ecstasy caused older residents to peer beyond their curtains to study what they had lost in themselves. As age crept inside the minds of the adults, the world shifts from no longer being a place for speculation, but an inevitable reminder of its extinction. The loss of meaning grows steadily in the hearts of the aging, as one gains the knowledge to assess their circumstances more clearly than the young. The young are not in search of meaning, but instead manipulative of virtues that seem intrinsic to their surroundings. The children make the best of what is; and perhaps it is they that have only accepted the inevitable as beautifully as they should. May it had only been the intricacies of its children that brought solace to this place, for the reason she was here was a grim one.