Complex Environment

Originally written on June 14, 2024




what's some good ambient music for an old journal, with breaths and the huffs of a nearby forge, as if they're in a stone structure intended for long-form reading, a smithy, and quiet, periodically visited hush-hush cafe at the corner, and various windows which point to a large area where tropical trees flow. There could be rain too, at times. The steps are quick, like fresh dogs under a bridge, who are trying to remain hidden yet swift. When the steps hit the floor, they sound like chalk. The tables smoothen the hands, thereby making a noise every time a man presses his hands and smoothly slides them against in a single direction. His hands are quickly removed in time for one of the members of his party to arrive, bringing various items and valuables, but most importantly, small plates of food with a coffee in a plastic container. The city outside uses plastic; despite the homely, old feel, they are in a vast city in a mall. But it is well-contained, and the tropical trees outside do signify a small forest surrounding the area, as this mall is vast and large, offering park-like areas and sparsely spread structures like this in which to hide and rest for safety and security from the rain and from the sense of confusion which a vast flat land offers, even with the readiness of a nearby tropical jungle environment, but which is blocked anyway partially by the walls surrounding and separating different sectors of the mall. The city is large, offering a view to a volcano at a nearby lake, a single ride away. Returning to the structure where the old journal is being read, his clothes and cuffs lightly press against his arms, his shoulders stretching comfortably and unnoticeably. He recognizes his safety here and welcomes it, a smile lightly pressed on his lips, but not so much that it messes his stride or momentum. When he sits, it is as if he is standing with the way he postures with no hurry, yet with a standard proportional balance that tempers the innate urges to proclaim territorial control. It is here that the humanist is measured and kindly watchful that he might challenge those who do seek his end. He cuts off the silence and enters down into his journal; clocking and timing his movements and reading stride that he isn't too strict or too wild. He recognizes his own fingers; that he smoothly rubs them as he shifts his posture. The rougher he takes his posture, the more a sense of solidity emerges. He watched the window and all the features and lingering characteristics, that he might view the emergent features of this occasion, that he might occasion a smile to arise from his very lips. He stooped, bending toward and into a journal entry he read. A smell clogs his nose; immersing him in a dark tone of coffee. He sipped quickly like a man happening to lose his way and in a hurry to destroy himself, but he was careful, very delicate. He knew what he didn't, and he knew that well. What he did not know, which he knew, was that all of this would end. It was a simple mistake to glance askance and take the coffee by the hand for a dance. They kicked their legs forward and raised their arms that they might release it wildly. He sang a song, pushing further and further in, the balance deteriorating, but the joy overwhelming. He sipped the syrupy taste, however bitter people called it, knowing well that it was too joyous not to take joy in coffee. Later, while he was writing with a silver pen, he dabbed his face with a tissue, notwithstanding the noise that came with even just a nip of dab. The mouth releases its saliva within, pooling and pooling until it reached a culmination, by which point the man was already sipping voraciously the coffee, entertaining his lips and tongue with the effervescent dark coffee somberness. He beautifully emerged again with a biscuit in his mouth, biting like a nut-cracker. He raised his hands, and they soon alighted upon the tips of his hips through his trousers. The sounds of this sensitive touch were like buttery doves 'nascently' raising their hands for a singular train. It was too hard to describe and comprehend: he might just lose it! The energies entertaining the air are 'sporadious!' But wait. Then again, there he was after all in the journal entry in his complex environment.