This is part of a story, a long story. A novel in thousands of parts on scraps of paper, in my head, and maybe in fragments here. We’ll see.
—
There sits a man, trying to write a tale. ‘Tana’ he calls it, for that is their word for tale, song, and it is theirs that muse be told. His memories burn, beginnings and ends blurred - mind nor tongue nor nib can find the words.
Suburbia’s cafe society quietly mingle about him, afraid of living too loudly. They not care for this story, yet it is its telling that is vital, not its reception. Voices echo through him in a tongue unknown to all others, and he smiles. He knows where to begin.
—
A boy, loping downhill. A misty ocean horizon and wild lawn of dewlocked weedflowers. Bare feet spurting puffs of petals and fragrance skyward, his pounding heels even rythym only broken by his leas over the branching rivulets racing him to the treelined rocky shore. Willowy branches lash his naked shoulders as he bursts through the trees, a breeze bringing the the swift tattoo of the hilltop temple’s drums.