Written By: Michael Lysiak, Staff Writer
The supernal begins with a faint white falling into a blue, unlaced by the similarly colored-clouds spilling across the color of the sea that reaches the center of an orange light that leaves a lukewarm, red illumination and barely touches a few of the free and puffy clouds above, wandering without course, without strain.
The high mountains are cold and curved, their tops being sprinkled by liminal winter that is still in its prime yet slacking this year as the unwanted flavors of snow on the bumpy and brutal feeling rock touch the red-soaked sky, at least the part of the sky that feels the dying breath of the sun’s flavor; but still, the beauty of the wind that flies around at the height proves great, able to take the breath of the snow away… as the snow that is not cemented and hardened enough gets whipped from the top and spirals into oblivion nicely.
The road below is black and hard, far down from the forever-changing heaven that barely gets time to shine in the winter days, the road, unlike the mountains, gets no close-up astonishment of the gray atmosphere but rather remains imprisoned deep down below, cracked and ruined with time, stomped on by the hard feet that ache and strain constantly within The Runner’s hard bones and tissue, and the road feels the cries that spill from the musty legs of her skin and remains seemingly an endless path for those who wander on searching for some freeness.
The trees are becoming more shadowed, and The Runner with her lethargic eyes can’t see any of the lush green each leaf projects, the nice sporadic and speratic branches that can not be fully appreciated and seen, and observing this serves as a clear signal for The Runner to look up and see the white that has sunken into a blue getting deeper and deeper in hue and the clouds that are sliced downwards reach a center with almost no more light and no more life, and the mountains are darker and closed with a bit of sadness, and yet still, the road remains with no guidance and what is left, the memorization of the path.
The Runner feels an urge to run faster, make her way back to the start as the night returns, but she keeps her pace, keeps her plan, speeding up only gradually and subtly as time goes on, and as the clock in her mind ticks, she constantly battles the brain-signal that silently tugs at her and makes her skin grow cold at the feeling of isolation when the road leads to the wrong place, and her kneecaps become stiffer, and blood races to make the muscles go quicker, and yet, she still juggles another stress as her mouth hangs open, taking in the air that now thickens with coldness and breathing out the feelings of her fatiguing body, a sign of the true wear and tear of her inner machine that lies beneath her skin that has always been susceptible to the cold under the loose workout clothes that bring no warmth
The last crack of light in the sky begins to be suffocated more and more, but this is futile to The Runner as she knows the course reaches its conclusion by every single step; regardless, even if she would bargain for more time, the supernal does not care and goes about its course as the warm blue has fully set in, and trees cease to be seen, but she still feels the road smashing upwards through her shoes and climbing up around her bones as she does the same to the deep, rooted Earth, and her endeavor progresses and progresses as the initial plan finally takes fruition after many steps of planning and careful acceleration to lead to a final strong sprint through a lane of the neighborhood and up onto her driveway as the last piece of light closes, and her body winds down.
–
The sky is of a great blue pallet, holding some deviations in the color scheme as it sinks down to the root of the atmosphere and the white clouds match with it nicely, and the trees that were once white and barren, stripped naked, now enjoy flakes growing from their thin arms, flat and green with spirit, but the shade barely covers the flowers below that open up their hands and breath in the sunlight shining down on them as The Runner passes by, jogging calmly on the surface of the road, wet from the rain that came in the previous night, but still cracked and ultimately black.
The Runner looks at all the lush Spring Blossoms and admires the beauty each of them bring when sprouting from the fresh grass, needing to pick one, but the sorrow of neglecting the rest proved strenuous; however, due to her now about to move on, grow up and change, she has to choose one; after all, the flowers have sung their praises about The Runner, and she gets the acceptance to pluck one and hold it with her for a certain amount of years; it is a decision against another decision, because each one can bring a beauty to stare at, a petal to feel and touch, an anther to admire and a stem to learn about, but that means no other flower will be able to feel that appreciation from her; but the judgment is not of the flowers that don’t get picked, but ultimately, on the chooser and how they see those flowers, and as she runs in the free day, she feels limited with the variety of options, a harder pressure on the right path to go on.
The road can feel this aggrandized pressure from The Runner’s worn out shoes as she runs, even if she tries to hide it; but after all, this time of the day is for her to run and to ease down; yet, it always ends up being a time to think deeply because the brain has so much to focus on as her body runs on autopilot and becomes used to the motion of running that it now feels elderly, both in a nostalgic way but also in a reminder that her time with it is limited, and her time is limited to submit a decision permanently, this forces a frown on her face as she runs past all the flowers starring at her, watching her run.
–
The solaris is small and far out in the naked blue sky, but its influence looms greatly, and the mountains are now shaved completely of their snow, and as the high heavens themselves cannot compete with the sun, any human hand to touch the tip of the rock would be burned, so much so that they would tumble all the way back down, and only a few would restart their climb; despite the unrivaled power of the ball of the flames and the futileness to run up the mountain… some would indeed still do it.
The road far down below is dry with heat, and its cracks whimper as the scorch of cement can be felt even past the The Runner’s shoe and into her legs that battle to hold in sweat and they shake as if they were freezing but (in reality) are endlessly bruised by the heatwave that attacks all of The Runner’s body, soaking and tanning her exposed abdomen completely, while her face remains straight, neglecting the sun that is poignantly there, alongside her arms that stay clutched to her ribs as they swing in the same motion over and over, as if at some point in the run, their speed will somehow break the barrier of the heat, and the body will cool and it will be over; but, a mile still remains and even when she finishes and walks into the shade the sun will still be there, not caring.
The shade soon sees her drenched and slouched body, hears her exhaustion as she hides under it and takes a moment to cool down, and this has happened before and will more for some time, as that’s just the natural course of things, and the sun will bring its ocean of flares, and The Runner, stuck to the root of the road, will have to deal with it – even in the night, the atmosphere will still feel the consequences of the heat and remain warm and humid, yet despite this, The Runner’s schedule is not over, her time to run is not over, so as she stretches under the shade and pulls her already strained legs and expands her arms that have fallen asleep, tomorrow, at the same time, the shade will watch her walk out from its presence again and see the sunlight.
–
The supernal space was now deep blue, with dark clouds informing the coming of the night and cold continuum and covering the entire pallet of the sky that can barely breathe as one long and big, tough cloud stretches across the world, making it possible for rumbling and forcing the trees bend down slowly and drop their leaves, letting them spin down to the ground and land next to the feet of The Runner, who now runs on golden wheat cement, the nice campus that has replaced the road as she turns her head and feels the warm yellow light coming from the dorm rooms that have replaced her neighborhood.
The trajectory is short and wedged between recently shaved grass, letting The Runner jog smoothly, the path has already become familiar to her as if it was always within her, yet she knows deep down that the run is just old, and that in reality everything is changing, and she sometimes says that phrase to herself, especially when, like now, she turns her head, and her eyesight reaches past the big rocks that fall down into the water and the dark blue sea that is low and barely rises, flattening out and glistening in the night, and yet even in the day, it is sometimes hard to tell where it ends.
The Runner finishes her exercise and stretches her arms out wide, cracking her back in the process as she feels the wind go by and slightly take her hair with it, and her skin feels a slight coldness but relaxes as she looks around at the small but lovely place, a small, delicate, yet astonishing flower that presents itself, she stands and touches the petals for just a moment, she looks at the anthers that make little noise across the shore, and she wonders what is deep below at the stem, and she takes in a deep breath and says those three words to herself again, in appreciation but also in a small sorrow, a great thing to be apart of, one with the flower, but unable to go back home again, to relive the old run.
–
The soft sand is cold yet so easy to run on, and the ocean spills over onto the sand, which without harassment or struggle, will slowly be swept away, and The Runner watches as the small waves take it away and leaves a wet and deep mark on the sand, with one stomp you would sink into it, your foot becoming stuck but not impossible to pull out, however, now your shoe would have a ton of dusty sand on it, and the quality of the shoe would be affected, yet the sand would eventually fall off, and some grains would be swept into the sea and then brought back up, but changed of course and sometimes even broken up further.
As she ran her feet felt harsh and weak, despite the sand being fine, and although it was cold, the weather was not why her feet shivered a little and felt as if they almost would fall off, and her body was frail, no longer accustomed to the thing that had never changed, now accustomed to another unchangingness, yet her head was still strong, discombobulated from being in the deepness that goes beneath the sand and now on a land path but still strong, still determined that, whenever time can show itself, whenever possible, she can bring herself to something that seemingly should be unchangeable, a comfort to just run as the world itself goes on, and when she finished her run, it was safe for her to say and recognize that it has changed, as it always does and always will, always changing yet always sticking to the same schedule some how.
She rested by the sand and saw the Supernal that was big and gray and the clouds that were empty and cold sinking all the way down to the endless sea; but even if the clouds were open and the sun shined down greatly, and the mountains that breathed the wind felt it and the trees that needed the light would felt it, and the road felt it deep in its cracks, ultimately, the sea, deep down at its heart, would remain okay and untouched, unaltered, and The Runner liked that feeling, because without that, she would feel it. -ML