Sunrazor
The Fly
Okay, I've had a request for this, so here it is.
Also, if you want to, go to http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/188/mars_lasar.html and listen to Sensuality. This story was written while listening to this song, and the timing works so that it ends up as a soundtrack.
Just a cool little something.
Here goes:
Nightswimming
By Sunrazor
I had this idea while doing a bit of "nightswimming" myself. Hope you like.
*************
The moon was full, and a rich vanilla color. It shimmered on the placid sea, so that the water itself seemed to be made of moonlight. It shone on the sand as well, turning its common dark-brown to softly-lit ivory. There was almost no sound, except for a soft wind in the trees on the hill above, and the gentle lapping of water on polished stone.
Bono padded quietly down the beach, towel thrown over one shoulder. He stopped by a large, smooth boulder, and draped the towel over it. He stood still for a minute, leaning against the rock, and pulling the salty air deep into his lungs.
He loved this. The dark. The stillness. It was a chance to disconnect himself from the insanity of his days, from all the different masks he put on or pulled off, depending on what was required. It was a chance to get rid of all of the excess and simply... breathe. Exist.
Slowly, he undressed, laying his clothes on the rock beside the towel, and walked down to the water's edge. He paused for a minute, letting the chilly water caress his feet, and then moved further in, immersing himself.
This was his favorite part of the whole ritual. When he stepped into the water, it felt as though the tired, old skin he had worn that day was sloughed off, and a new one grown in its place. It was a kind of nightly baptism, which he had come not only to look forward to, but to depend on. He'd found that if he missed his swim, he slept badly, had troubled dreams, and often started out the next day in a foul mood.
Even on tour, when access to a large body of water might not be readily available, he had come to depend on the pools and hot tubs the hotels provided, as a kind of substitute. They worked, hell, even a bath usually was enough to calm his jangling nerves, but nothing could compare to this, his beach, his sea, his home.
He lay back in the water, breathing deeply and regularly, letting the waves rock him gently. The surf on this beach was, for the most part, negligible, and there wasn't much of an undertow. Besides, he'd been swimming here for years, and trusted the water, even thought of it as an old friend.
He gazed up at the moon and the stars, his only companions here. They gazed back at him impassively. They didn't care who he was. They wouldn't gripe at him about missed album deadlines, they wouldn't scream at him for autographs or photos. They wouldn't complain about missed rehearsals, or lost tapes. They would be content, as he was, simply to exist.
He turned himself upright in the water, took a deep breath, and dived.
He'd dived deep, and the water was black and cold, and colder the farther down he went. The pressure ached in his ears, still he stroked downwards, until he touched the sloping, sandy bottom. He stayed there for a minute, gathering himself, and then pushed up off the bottom with his feet, rising so quickly that the ache in his ears turned into a shocked sting.
He broke the surface, gasping, and positioned himself on his back again to catch his breath. As he lay, cradled by the waves, a creeping pool of melancholy spread outward from somewhere in his chest, like the cold, black water towards the bottom. Soon, he would be traveling again. He would have to leave this nightly haven that had become so important to him, and deal with what many of the people around him solemnly called "real life". Bono snorted slightly at this thought. Real. For so long, he had forgotten what real even was. Then he had remembered this place, and reality had come flooding back to him. Real was things like this. Like the moonlight on the sea. The feel of water on his naked skin. The taste of salt in his mouth, the night breeze caressing his face with tiny fingers. And then, to go quietly up to his house, to lie next to the woman he loved, to hold her in his arms, and to slip into dreams.
Those things were real. Those were the things he would have to leave behind.
He sighed, and began to stroke back towards the shore. The night was getting on, and if Ali woke up to find him still gone, she might worry.
He reached the beach, dried himself, and dressed. He was just starting back up the road that led to his house on the hill, when he stopped.
Kneeling, he took a handful of the moonlit, mooncolored sand, sifting it through his fingers.
He stood, looking out across the water, and laughed softly.
"I have this much," he whispered. "I have this much. I'm foolish to want more." He laughed again, running his hands through his wet hair. "But I do. I need more. And what I need... isn't here."
He started up the hill. At the top, before he reached his gate, he turned again to the water.
"I'll come back. When this is what I need again, I'll come back."
He crept upstairs, into the bedroom, undressed again, and slipped into bed beside Ali. He lay on his back for some time, thinking. Then he turned to face his wife, marveling at how the moonlight shining through the open window turned her skin the same color as the ivory sand. He reached out a hand and gently ran a finger along the line of her jaw. She sighed softly, and turned her head towards him, but then was still again.
Maybe I don't have to leave this behind, Bono thought. I have to leave it, but maybe I don't have to leave it behind.
And before he had time to wonder what this meant, he was dreaming.
-----------------------------------------------
Well, that's it. Whaddaya think?
------------------
"It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything." - Fight Club
"Here's where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don't forget. Forget that there are places in the world that aren't made out of stone. That there's something inside that's yours, that they can't touch. That's the beauty of music. They can't take that away from you." - The Shawshank Redemption
"All God wants is a willing heart and for us to call out to him." - Bono
Also, if you want to, go to http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/188/mars_lasar.html and listen to Sensuality. This story was written while listening to this song, and the timing works so that it ends up as a soundtrack.
Just a cool little something.
Here goes:
Nightswimming
By Sunrazor
I had this idea while doing a bit of "nightswimming" myself. Hope you like.
*************
The moon was full, and a rich vanilla color. It shimmered on the placid sea, so that the water itself seemed to be made of moonlight. It shone on the sand as well, turning its common dark-brown to softly-lit ivory. There was almost no sound, except for a soft wind in the trees on the hill above, and the gentle lapping of water on polished stone.
Bono padded quietly down the beach, towel thrown over one shoulder. He stopped by a large, smooth boulder, and draped the towel over it. He stood still for a minute, leaning against the rock, and pulling the salty air deep into his lungs.
He loved this. The dark. The stillness. It was a chance to disconnect himself from the insanity of his days, from all the different masks he put on or pulled off, depending on what was required. It was a chance to get rid of all of the excess and simply... breathe. Exist.
Slowly, he undressed, laying his clothes on the rock beside the towel, and walked down to the water's edge. He paused for a minute, letting the chilly water caress his feet, and then moved further in, immersing himself.
This was his favorite part of the whole ritual. When he stepped into the water, it felt as though the tired, old skin he had worn that day was sloughed off, and a new one grown in its place. It was a kind of nightly baptism, which he had come not only to look forward to, but to depend on. He'd found that if he missed his swim, he slept badly, had troubled dreams, and often started out the next day in a foul mood.
Even on tour, when access to a large body of water might not be readily available, he had come to depend on the pools and hot tubs the hotels provided, as a kind of substitute. They worked, hell, even a bath usually was enough to calm his jangling nerves, but nothing could compare to this, his beach, his sea, his home.
He lay back in the water, breathing deeply and regularly, letting the waves rock him gently. The surf on this beach was, for the most part, negligible, and there wasn't much of an undertow. Besides, he'd been swimming here for years, and trusted the water, even thought of it as an old friend.
He gazed up at the moon and the stars, his only companions here. They gazed back at him impassively. They didn't care who he was. They wouldn't gripe at him about missed album deadlines, they wouldn't scream at him for autographs or photos. They wouldn't complain about missed rehearsals, or lost tapes. They would be content, as he was, simply to exist.
He turned himself upright in the water, took a deep breath, and dived.
He'd dived deep, and the water was black and cold, and colder the farther down he went. The pressure ached in his ears, still he stroked downwards, until he touched the sloping, sandy bottom. He stayed there for a minute, gathering himself, and then pushed up off the bottom with his feet, rising so quickly that the ache in his ears turned into a shocked sting.
He broke the surface, gasping, and positioned himself on his back again to catch his breath. As he lay, cradled by the waves, a creeping pool of melancholy spread outward from somewhere in his chest, like the cold, black water towards the bottom. Soon, he would be traveling again. He would have to leave this nightly haven that had become so important to him, and deal with what many of the people around him solemnly called "real life". Bono snorted slightly at this thought. Real. For so long, he had forgotten what real even was. Then he had remembered this place, and reality had come flooding back to him. Real was things like this. Like the moonlight on the sea. The feel of water on his naked skin. The taste of salt in his mouth, the night breeze caressing his face with tiny fingers. And then, to go quietly up to his house, to lie next to the woman he loved, to hold her in his arms, and to slip into dreams.
Those things were real. Those were the things he would have to leave behind.
He sighed, and began to stroke back towards the shore. The night was getting on, and if Ali woke up to find him still gone, she might worry.
He reached the beach, dried himself, and dressed. He was just starting back up the road that led to his house on the hill, when he stopped.
Kneeling, he took a handful of the moonlit, mooncolored sand, sifting it through his fingers.
He stood, looking out across the water, and laughed softly.
"I have this much," he whispered. "I have this much. I'm foolish to want more." He laughed again, running his hands through his wet hair. "But I do. I need more. And what I need... isn't here."
He started up the hill. At the top, before he reached his gate, he turned again to the water.
"I'll come back. When this is what I need again, I'll come back."
He crept upstairs, into the bedroom, undressed again, and slipped into bed beside Ali. He lay on his back for some time, thinking. Then he turned to face his wife, marveling at how the moonlight shining through the open window turned her skin the same color as the ivory sand. He reached out a hand and gently ran a finger along the line of her jaw. She sighed softly, and turned her head towards him, but then was still again.
Maybe I don't have to leave this behind, Bono thought. I have to leave it, but maybe I don't have to leave it behind.
And before he had time to wonder what this meant, he was dreaming.
-----------------------------------------------
Well, that's it. Whaddaya think?
------------------
"It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything." - Fight Club
"Here's where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don't forget. Forget that there are places in the world that aren't made out of stone. That there's something inside that's yours, that they can't touch. That's the beauty of music. They can't take that away from you." - The Shawshank Redemption
"All God wants is a willing heart and for us to call out to him." - Bono
