Story #9- The Architect Rests

This photograph was sent in by Laura. Thank you for the beautiful image and inspiration!


For many days there is no food, no water, and very little color.

Only the last of these pertains to the small man.

He walks a narrow strip of land, chasing the blue left in the sky.

There are few things that can drain the man of color. There are dreamless nights and sun-bleached skies and oceans filled with nothing at all. And there are long journeys such as the one he is on now.

He bends down and scoops up a handful of the finest, whitest, smoothest sand. He parts his fingers and lets the sand wash back into the desert. It pours out and reminds him of both a waterfall and a slow burning flame.

Behind him he leaves a pathway of color and movement. Behind him are flying unicorns and first kisses that will never come to be. There are loved ones of the past, waiting to share a conversation. There are job promotions and trophies and prizes. There are many dogs- some are made of clouds and some are real. There are dinosaurs that give rides around the world.

The pathway is not without shadow. There are also cliffs to fall off of and monsters that chase. There are some broken hearts, and people who only mean harm. These things are of the darkest color, and the man keeps very few of them in his wake.

Despite his vibrant trail, the man is always alone. Behind him there is a path. In front of him there is nothing. Only sand. Only empty air that bends, pretending to be something different. The man will decide what is to become of it.

But not today.

Today the empty spaces are too far away. The sands are too white. The skies are too pale.

The man cannot go on.

He picks up another heap of sand and this time he holds it tight in a clenched fist. There are things to consider.

He glances back at the pathway. The creatures behind him are of his invention. Carefully calculated. Molded and expected.

But what would he see if- for once- he was no longer the inventor, but the receiver?

The sand feels warm. It is starting to manifest the way it always does. But the man does not want to send this sand away. He does not want to create another tree for climbing or pool for swimming.

He wants something different. He wants something that is his own.

He holds the sand close to him and kneels down. The ground is moved. A bed is made.

The man lies down and throws his sand up into the air. It lands around his closed eyes like soft floating confetti.

Sweet dreams.



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