At the age of 15, his bones thickened and his lankiness fleshed out. You could see from his jaw and the curve of his back that he had become a man. He lost the shy smile, it had always been a faint reflection; his mother's benign adoration. Instead his light eyes shone dark with the glow of turgid stirrings from deep with his soul. Still all the life he lives, there's one thing he'll never lose.
The swiftness of thought, the grinding of gears upon gears and chains pulling trains of thought, rushing fast, falling headfirst, tumbling ladders, dodging snakes, running up through fields of mental mind games. He never resists it. It never stops.
But, the clogs, they work fast and the machine, it moves slow. And the train, it runs on but, never in the right direction. He still wants candy, far too often and far too much. And without it, he's a loss. All the books, all the logic, all the knowledge, all the money; all useless as worn inner-wear at a garage sale. All useless if he can't have candy. And too many times a day he's on his knees, "Please Lord, let me always have Candy!"
This was never intended to be so much like Joyce's 'Portrait of an Artist...', I wasn't even thinking of it when I wrote his but when I read it back I suddenly felt like a plagiarist; he must be a bigger influence on me than I know. If you liked this, please 'like' it below. Read the rest of the blog here.