Zorba the Hutt (zorbathut) wrote,
Zorba the Hutt

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(rain beats down on the rooftops, sheeting off the ceramics in curls and blades. the town is empty, gone to sleep long ago, except for one figure trudging down main street, feet sinking slightly into the mud with every step, head lowered. he carries a heavy hiking backpack, clinking slightly with each step, obviously loaded to capacity.)

there is nowhere left to hide
there is nothing to be done
no people to be saved
no pets we've never named
forty miles from the sun

I guess I'm lonely.

I want someone to love. I want someone to trust. I want someone that I can feel maybe, just maybe, I can do some good for . . . rather than just hurting. I want someone here. I want someone to hug me.

but there's no trust. there's no belief. there's just emptiness.

(some would find a hotel. some would at least find shelter from the relentless rain. the figure seems immune to it, and in fact, he is. his clothes are waterproof, a seemingly endless series of oilings and patches and improvements having closed every hole long ago. there's no pride in the work, just the efficient solution of a problem, no effort taken beyond that. he walks through the rain . . . not striding, or plodding, but a simple walk.)

as darkness craves the mind
we come undone without our pride
no time on earth to come
all the pleasures just begun
forty miles from the sun

it's weird. I can't decide if I'm doing as badly as it sounds or not. because I'm alive. I'm essentially okay. I'll get by. but I won't enjoy it. I don't know why I'm doing it, except that I don't want to give up. I'm just not sure what I'm fighting for anymore. I've forgotten why I'm doing this. I'm just doing it.

(town hall passes by on the right, and he gives it the same lack of regard as he has every building since entering the gates. a few lights still burn, paperhandlers finishing up the last filing from the day's work. he walks through their light, the raindrops flashing into brief brilliance before shattering into a million crystals on his widebrim hat. pools of scintillating water form in his footsteps.)

in our coats beneath the layer
wash my skin of all the hate
we should sleep late
everything just kind of grates
forty miles from the sun

I'm not sure what there is left. Hang on, I suppose. Wait for whatever happens next. Hope that it doesn't hurt . . . except there's no hope either. There's just existence. Maybe I've gone beyond hope, maybe I've dropped behind it. I don't know. It's a routine . . . one that keeps me sane, but is it worth it?

(the townspeople know him. sometimes he comes through in the daytime, and people talk to him, and sometimes he responds. but nobody knows why he does it. not even him, though he doesn't seem concerned. he passes through one town after another, sometimes stopping for food, sometimes stopping to work, but otherwise always moving. some say he sleeps on the road, and perhaps they're right. he wouldn't be able to tell you.)

i need to lose to make it right
i'll confront the stars tonight
i will babble i will bite
you'll never know how much you shine
forty miles from the sun

I just don't know what to do. I don't know what there is. Change leads to pain, but is that a bad thing? is that a good thing? pain doesn't mean anything. change doesn't mean anything. there's just the endless progression. one foot in front of the other. and nothing changes, in the end, nothing's really new. At best, a little spice to the same world . . . but it all fades.

I'm worn out.

(soon he reaches the gates, and passes through them, leaving another town behind him. another location. another day, another year. he's forgotten long ago what he's walking to, or from. only that he walks. and so he does. someday he'll sit down and not get up. but until then, all that he knows is the road and the emptiness. all he sees are the seasons and the years. so he walks.)

I'm worn out.
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