The Way Down
Entry by: SimonH
8th May 2015
There lies a meandering road that stretches far ahead, appearing to contort and bend towards the horizon beyond. It is laid haphazardly, gravel moving gradually to cobbles, distorting into tarmac that burns black against the landscape. In the distance it grows ragged, patchy, the half-remembered cobbles coming through and appearing to grow and sprout of the path’s broken body. The landscape that encompasses the view is equal in its seemingly random nature. Behind, there lies a forest, green and fresh in primordial fog. Quiet and heavy is the air, perfumed with the scent of rich orchids and chrysanthemum blossom that dot it all over, white and purple specks that ripple out in all directions. The bowers above form a canopy that, looking up, seem almost to bury the sky so only the occasional patch of blue punctuates the arching womb of green and brown. The stillness is profound and innocent, the only movement the rasping wind that sweeps through relentless, slow but without ceasing. The branches of gnarled oaks bend slightly in the breeze, each twisted and crooked arm ending in a leafy hand that points on, further down the road. An arrow that whispers, “Leaveâ€.
As the forest recedes the trees grow thinner, the air ceasing to be drenched in the pure, sickly sweet aroma of orchids but a multitude of new flowers that blossom in the now visible sun. It drips through an opening wood that has begun to allow the blue sky to scatter the emerald canopy. Heat is palpable all around, the sun’s rays seeming to bewitch the air into arching, rising currents that warp and surround. They twist delicately, like water drops on a suspended string, visible by the small specks of dust that are brought to view by the light. Fog has receded and one may now look beyond the confines of the path to the world that stretches out on either side, only the knots of tree roots preventing the visibility of the earth's curve. The path has begun to bend ever so slightly from its previous line, so straight in the forest before, twisting softly back and forth on itself. Quivering in excitement.
The trees disappear, replaced by rolling grassland, fertile and expansive. Reeds and soft grasses bend seductive in the wind that seems to swirl in the openness of the air. They arch, fluttering gently against each other in a rasping embrace. The scent is now more earthen and coarse but no less appealing in the absence of white blossom. Heat is more noticeable than before, no longer content to merely melt the fog that raptured the forest but now boiling slowly into a seething, humid grip that seems to penetrate throughout. From above, the heat seems to congeal the dust into gravel, into cobbles, into black tarmac that scorches and burns a black streak across the plain under the sticky pressure of the surrounding warmth. The road arcs majestic from side to side, rising and falling over hill and valley, seeming to worm its way across the landscape in a mesh of black on green. It appears to converge with other streets, some gliding close, some nowhere near, with some becoming a tributary with to a wider course. In its confidence it spawns other spindly paths that mischievously arch off it, small and unwieldy but gliding regardless to their own horizon.
Ahead, the road begins to ache. Its tarmac is ruptured and sores punctuate throughout. It seems to bend slower now; it’s sweeping strokes gentler and less forthright than before. It follows the lie of the land ahead, becoming more a river than a road, the path of least resistance only, seeming to dare no more. The grasses that once surrounded it are now brown and weak, dry in the intense heat that burns all around, draining all moisture and life from them. They crack and break in the coiling maelstrom, a seething roar that crashes and breaks, tearing at the surface of the road and weathering it further. The path begins to thin, its offshoots far behind and seemingly forgotten; just dots on the horizon that now run a different course. It ceases abruptly. Looking beyond there is little visible in the night that has now shuttered the sun. Stars wink and glitter, only ghosts of their former glory, their light reaching so far to earth it has begun to bleed and redden, as they, far behind and out of view, die also. The sea laps gently at the ragged edges of the path, slowly chewing on its stone, white caps to the waves hazing and breaking the tranquillity beneath, the still ness of the deep. All roads must descend to the shoreline. To look back, is to look up. For all are but a long way down.
As the forest recedes the trees grow thinner, the air ceasing to be drenched in the pure, sickly sweet aroma of orchids but a multitude of new flowers that blossom in the now visible sun. It drips through an opening wood that has begun to allow the blue sky to scatter the emerald canopy. Heat is palpable all around, the sun’s rays seeming to bewitch the air into arching, rising currents that warp and surround. They twist delicately, like water drops on a suspended string, visible by the small specks of dust that are brought to view by the light. Fog has receded and one may now look beyond the confines of the path to the world that stretches out on either side, only the knots of tree roots preventing the visibility of the earth's curve. The path has begun to bend ever so slightly from its previous line, so straight in the forest before, twisting softly back and forth on itself. Quivering in excitement.
The trees disappear, replaced by rolling grassland, fertile and expansive. Reeds and soft grasses bend seductive in the wind that seems to swirl in the openness of the air. They arch, fluttering gently against each other in a rasping embrace. The scent is now more earthen and coarse but no less appealing in the absence of white blossom. Heat is more noticeable than before, no longer content to merely melt the fog that raptured the forest but now boiling slowly into a seething, humid grip that seems to penetrate throughout. From above, the heat seems to congeal the dust into gravel, into cobbles, into black tarmac that scorches and burns a black streak across the plain under the sticky pressure of the surrounding warmth. The road arcs majestic from side to side, rising and falling over hill and valley, seeming to worm its way across the landscape in a mesh of black on green. It appears to converge with other streets, some gliding close, some nowhere near, with some becoming a tributary with to a wider course. In its confidence it spawns other spindly paths that mischievously arch off it, small and unwieldy but gliding regardless to their own horizon.
Ahead, the road begins to ache. Its tarmac is ruptured and sores punctuate throughout. It seems to bend slower now; it’s sweeping strokes gentler and less forthright than before. It follows the lie of the land ahead, becoming more a river than a road, the path of least resistance only, seeming to dare no more. The grasses that once surrounded it are now brown and weak, dry in the intense heat that burns all around, draining all moisture and life from them. They crack and break in the coiling maelstrom, a seething roar that crashes and breaks, tearing at the surface of the road and weathering it further. The path begins to thin, its offshoots far behind and seemingly forgotten; just dots on the horizon that now run a different course. It ceases abruptly. Looking beyond there is little visible in the night that has now shuttered the sun. Stars wink and glitter, only ghosts of their former glory, their light reaching so far to earth it has begun to bleed and redden, as they, far behind and out of view, die also. The sea laps gently at the ragged edges of the path, slowly chewing on its stone, white caps to the waves hazing and breaking the tranquillity beneath, the still ness of the deep. All roads must descend to the shoreline. To look back, is to look up. For all are but a long way down.
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