The barn was frustratingly whole, but like all objects the light touches, he knew that soon enough the paint would flake. A little bit later, the roof would begin to crumble, and each time rain fell, the oily tongue of time would begin to eat at the walls and foundations.
And then it would become a race between the termites and rot, both blundering toward the same goal. The same, stupid, inevitable goal. The one we’re taught is somehow beautiful. No matter how gruesome, and no matter how devastating.
But right now? A beautiful, red barn. Standing under the sun, strong as a medieval cathedral.
He hated it for that reason. Its current strength. Strength he didn’t have a the moment. Strength that, if he was honest, wouldn’t be with him for quite some time. So he picked up a rock and heaved it through the small window on the side of the barn.
And then he walked home.
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Note: Found the above in an old journal. Kind of like it. I’m working on a longer story, right now, so I won’t be posting quite as often. As a result, I’ve turned off payments. I feel guilty asking you for money if I won’t be posting as regularly. Hopefully, though, that silence will bear fruit.
Until then, here’s to throwing rocks.