10.16.17 – Marble-y
He kept his head tilted down, ran his hands across his scalp with those chipped and unkempt nails itching along its surface. He didn’t pull bundles of hair but instead let it drag like he was tilling his crown and slid those fingers from its center to the length of his neck. The eyes stayed unfocused, touching back and again to the right corner, scanning in uncertainty. Apart from his arms he held still and sat hunched so fully over that he might have rolled into a ball at any moment and spilled onto the floor in a tumble of summersaults.
That far away space he was searching seemed to prop him up better than his own spine or even the coordinated effort between his knees and elbows. He wasn’t cradling his head in his hands and the repeated running showed little signs of carrying him further forward. The leaves rustled apologetically behind him, a slight ruffle like starched sheets on an otherwise quiet street. The wind didn’t unsettle anything else, just the fragile fingers of a greying tree and the wisps of hair that snuck free of his combing hands.
There was a decision being rummaged about with every toss. The pose was soft enough that he might have been sedentary for a minute or even an hour while weighing the ease of that thing and we wouldn’t have known the difference. He was crystallizing as an archetype to those on lookers, replacing some weaker visual definition long ago catalogued. For him, comfort was a distant thought and every time the light bulb was about to come on, someone swatted at the string and sent that delicate glass swinging wildly about. He was suspended in the same solution.