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sad beautiful tragic {▲} maya & abel
Jun 3, 2015 13:00:36 GMT -5
Post by d4 tati pelotte [azalea] on Jun 3, 2015 13:00:36 GMT -5
LXX
Competition.
There's different types of competitions, and we're nearly always surrounded by at least one of them. There is competition between animals for food and water, there is the type where people compete for a prize, for glory; and there's a competition between which type of wall I want to switch to when I lay my head down on my pillow.
I'm still not sure whether the serene sounds of a running river beat the peacefulness of birds darting between towering trees.
And I go from one type of competition to another: The Hunger Games. And as my feet stand, shaking, in front of my opponents, I finally get a true glimpse of what lies ahead. I look at them, my eyes observing their every breath and movement, their appearance. It's important to remember every single little detail about them all. Whether the boy from two has a gammy hip or if the girl from six has one too many toes. I have to remember it all if I am to last two seconds in that arena.
My gaze falls upon a small boy who looks no older than eleven. Looking at him makes me feel such pain, one that is unique to the surreal nature of the games. How can a boy so young expect to win against such bitter rivals? His mother, his father must be stuck in a world of ugliness, a heart that is black through and through and only darkens with every second since his name was called.
Abel.
I remember watching the reaping of his district now, the dam has been broken and it has come flooding back. Abel, his name is Abel. I take the brief remembrance of the word to step over to him and strike up a conversation, an open ended one, because who knows where he will take me.
"I watched your reaping."
There's different types of competitions, and we're nearly always surrounded by at least one of them. There is competition between animals for food and water, there is the type where people compete for a prize, for glory; and there's a competition between which type of wall I want to switch to when I lay my head down on my pillow.
I'm still not sure whether the serene sounds of a running river beat the peacefulness of birds darting between towering trees.
And I go from one type of competition to another: The Hunger Games. And as my feet stand, shaking, in front of my opponents, I finally get a true glimpse of what lies ahead. I look at them, my eyes observing their every breath and movement, their appearance. It's important to remember every single little detail about them all. Whether the boy from two has a gammy hip or if the girl from six has one too many toes. I have to remember it all if I am to last two seconds in that arena.
My gaze falls upon a small boy who looks no older than eleven. Looking at him makes me feel such pain, one that is unique to the surreal nature of the games. How can a boy so young expect to win against such bitter rivals? His mother, his father must be stuck in a world of ugliness, a heart that is black through and through and only darkens with every second since his name was called.
Abel.
I remember watching the reaping of his district now, the dam has been broken and it has come flooding back. Abel, his name is Abel. I take the brief remembrance of the word to step over to him and strike up a conversation, an open ended one, because who knows where he will take me.
"I watched your reaping."
[/presto]
