VERB NOUN
10-14-2018, 01:12 AM
(This post was last modified: 10-14-2018, 01:13 AM by Reyweld.)
You hold your knees to your chest, rocking back and forth, back and forth.
The hut around you creaks and groans, a conspicuous set-up ten years in the making. The moss has crawled up the inside of the window frame (which had never had a window) and covered the ceiling. The shack, supported only by meager beams, was once small and pathetic. Now it is a suitable residence, a one room everything because only one has ever lived here.
Your tiny clothing from ages past sits neatly on a wooden block (dresser), near the doorway. The door has no hinges, just a long bark mesh leaning on the opening. That door is very new; they must be replaced regularly. The weaving of bark is very distracting, and distraction is good.
Crude furs are in heaps everywhere. Where the moss isn’t growing (and some where it is), murals made from ground shells and rocks watered down into paint distract from the loss of time. New murals are constantly painted over the old.
“Bored,” you whisper. After being silent for so long, you found your voice restricted. Now, you take the effort to speak each day you await your discovery. “I am bored.”
You are bored. You must not stay bored. You look around your room, desperate to occupy your time. Paints, bark weaving, cleaning, or bonsai? Or something new. Is there something new? You feel that you’ve been playing the same game for as long as you can remember.
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