We met again with the deepest blue, tempting us with his depthless eyes.
They seemed to ask, "Where is your will?"
Unable to answer, we averted our eyes, trying to come up with an excuse. a fault or two. an understanding to make understood.
Silent minutes passed by agonizingly and the unanswerables hung onto the stagnant air between us, mocking us, as they curled up into a wisp of nothingness.
"Five years.
You have still not outgrown it," he said, disappointed, as he turned to walk away.
A thousand arms, screaming in desperation, seemed to reach out, begging to follow. To be dragged along.
"You'll never be able to go anywhere with those feet nailed into the ground."
He scoffed, walking away now without hesitation.
The thousand outstretched flailing arms stopped.
Then, faced with the awful truth, they detached and fell one by one onto the ground with the unanimous feeling of frustration.
The self-severed arms sighed, fingers twitching, as they surrounded the pierced, swollen feet from which trickled out the deepest red.
Yet not one of them had the will to pry those rusty nails out.