Photo: ArtStation – Scott Richard
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Nothing from within is to motivate. We’re rather a vessel where energy recharges and swings its own weight. To dive and try is to die. By breast stroking through the waters of a bodily mood we never asked for, it’s here to either sleep us, teach us, or project onto another vessel. From above, our chambers of mystical infrastructures hold air—for when the hummings ascend, they breathe to inspire us.
Learning that what matters lie between the leaders of Mahan, they point carefully to select each ambassador. Formally Presenton, similar lights of outer gatherings near Port Avanti never confuse the chosen; however, an intellect’s lack of awareness would expose these delegators.
Spinning at colors lead them to a dark sea of thought, and with motive to cease it, one conversation can make them croak.
This is how the story of Port Avanti begins at the moment one-million seconds forgetting to laugh; how a young boy could ask a simple question, igniting his addiction and color creation.
In a city where the rich remotely dictate their assets’ influences, he’d alter how moods guide decisions. For each lost thought upon diversified soil, silence becomes truth. With a new sea of learning stars showing us the light-years we can’t see, only those who know, are it.
We don’t inhale to move, it’s our duty for balance.
“What’s your goal, Rigil?” Jessica asks.
“I’m like the one man no one cares to hear.”
Her hand jolts beside her cheek. “Okay, and?”
“Sorry, I don’t— .”
“You were just excited and now you get melancholy on me.”
“I don’t control this shit.”
“What? Your emotions?” She asks.
“Look out the nook window. It’s lit, ain’t it?” West tower illuminates a trio of promising hues, taking her eyes east of the projectile light. This isn’t a moment of the many who’d awaken, or a mood we experience through colors—the lights symbolize our uniting vessels in one breath. “Too good for this air?” I presume.
Swallowing her words, she coughs, spits, and gasps…