He sat at the edge of the river looking at his float, holding his chin with his right hand, his left arm folded on his lap. In the corner of his weary, old eyes, with the blood red edges, he saw the flocks of birds go by. His mother had known where they were heading, and how their altitude would interrelate with the weather and the pressure of the air. It will be cold, she said then. Or, it is going to rain all night and all day tomorrow, I’ll bet my boots on it, and then she and her husband and his brother would be out all evening, preparing what remained of their house and the large old shed next to it for the rain.
He was old, but still in his heart, something stirred that was destined to always remain young: the remembrance of that girl child he once loved so much. Which he had longed to kill so much. He had longed for her tongue so much, to play with him, in his boyish innocence. Ever from that day, there was nothing that had caught his taste so deeply and so firmly as the playfulness of a girl.
And so he overthought his life, in grim, fleeting thought, as the clouds floated by like giant glooming ships, and always the radiant beauty of the child he had forever closed in his heart was looming and waiting to peep out, when two following thoughts had a little space between him.
Soon he was going to enter his eternal sleep.
His eyelids became heavy, the fish wouldn’t bite.
Then slowly he entered his sleep. It had been waiting for him, ever since the day he was born.
There he faded, the eyes became glassy, the sun came from behind the clouds and near his floater a few ripples appeared.
-Writingstorm 8 random