Swing By

The little boy was a monster. The other little boy-who happened to be none but a true angel-knew this for a fact or let’s just say this was what was felt inside his heart.

His curiosity though, was the force which would propel him to engage with matters he wouldn’t have, given everyday circumstances. The wanderer inside his angelic soul would have been the only reason for him to have anything to do with the little monster, the other boy.

There was something evil about this monster of a little boy which he could sense very easily; something so overt that no one could quickly deny; and definitely nothing that our little boy would easily be tricked about.

Eventually he decided to give in and be tricked about something that inside his heart would never be considered as a trick of any kind. No, this was all what HE wanted to be a part of; so in fact, the little monster’s actions-with or without malice aforethought-would’ve meant nothing to the boy. They wouldn’t have made any difference; except for the occasional scars and wounds which would for a very long time remain on the surface of his angelic soul, so delicate.

There also happened to be a third little boy; neither a monster nor an angel. Not even an extraterrestrial of any kind, nor even an alien in disguise; but simply a third little boy just as small as the other two. One, also with a soul so delicate and definitely on the verge of constant fear and doubt; tension mixed with a certain amount of darkness with a considerable dose of love inside his chest.

The third little boy, nice or not-so-nice also did wound him like no one ever had. He did in fact trick him into many a stupor controlled by mere confusion, confession & disgust. The third little boy knew how to play this game, no matter how simple-minded he was. A mere simple being, filled with anger and much darkness; ever-so-inevitable!

He was hurt time and again; he had regrets every single day. He lived with hardship and with bitterness and pain; he had to deal with loneliness and sorrow and that bitterness of holding it all in. he was hurt, was wounded all over, that very little boy with that very delicate soul; that angelic spirit.

At times he would walk the playgrounds of time; occasionally sitting on a swing so still, holding this hint of a hope that someday a somebody would approach from far behind, or perhaps just far above and pull and then push; so that the swing could do what it was meant to: move, flow and fly high…

So that he could after what felt like many lives and centuries in time, feel once more what it feels to own that pair of wings which he had long long lost; those wings which had been clipped by the many wounds and pains he had had to somehow learn to survive.

The fourth little boy wasn’t in fact as little as one might think; he was rather big somehow. His tale held notions of each and every one of the first three little boys. This fourth not-so-little boy was sitting on a swing; moving to the flow which the autumn breeze would bring. With that flow, and so smoothly, he would swing, swing back and forth… this fourth little boy used to have a pair of wings…as he was moving to the rhythm of that freezing flow of fall, he was reflecting on something…

A very little monster from far back in his life and also another little boy…he was thinking that perhaps they were out there somewhere, living with a pain which wouldn’t easily be gone; even after years, decades passing by…he was thinking they must be somewhere, perhaps not so far away, dealing with their pain. He was thinking of how they would deal with the lack of a pair of wings…

It started to rain in that lonesome little playground of nostalgia and melancholy…the rusty faded swing set; that broken once-red slide…the see-saw out in the corner, all looked brighter and alive.

The rain did cause bigger winds; the swing set did fly high. He realized as he was flying way up in the sky, how the very little boys, those little monsters from the past, were only shadows from the past; today though, they were somewhere, either dealing with their pain or flying in the rain…

“Either way!” he thought; “who cares what they once did…I’ve forgiven all today; I’ve forgotten all of pain…I’m flying once again…”

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