Brambles spike and barb his wizened hands, he pushes forth, pressing leaf to trunk clambering through thicket and bush, snared by vines that sought to keep him captive.
He grunts in irritation, words no longer tools of expression, his solitary prison acres of jungle, no companion nor human to indulge in social constructs.
The goal escape, the race eternal he strides and cuts and slices as weed and flower tumble to wayside his determination steel, foundation locked on retrieving existence.
“I know you’re up there” he suddenly says, raspy voice, throat rusty through non use, eyes thinned like small pencil lines burrowed in craggy sand.
“Stop it, I know you can hear me,” he mutters aloud, cursing some unknowable god figure, an absentee watcher, spying on his own creations.
“Cut it out!” he cries, standing amidst foiliage denser than water, ivy and leaf covering his body, as a bony rough index jabs the very sky with accusation and malice.
“Hey! Get over yourself” he shouts, his… “No! Stop narrating my life!” he bellows, the sky sudd… “HEY! I’M TALKING TO YOU!”
He stands silently, waiting for me to respond in kind, but I continue to type instead, unsure on how to even start such a dialogue, to reveal the truth.
“Easy. Say my name,” Trevor tells me. “Not so hard, was it? Though trying to be cute about it just makes you look daft. You finished?”
Yes. “Good, now tell me why you left me alone here, in this word jungle, full of the unused ideas that you just slipped to the wayside?”
I did not want you to get stale. “Stale? I’m a human being!” Well, technically, you’re a creation of my weirdy mind and fingers, and have you noticed how odd this is?
“Odd? Odd?! I’ve been locked with plantlife for months! My trousers are made of lilypads and I’ve been using coconuts as pillows! You could have written a nicer home!”
Yeah, that is my fault, sorry. I slipped up. I forgot things, and that as a pillar of invention, you propped up the beginning of this venture into pometry.
“So, can we get out of here, and can I perchance bother you, to get me back into my life, so I can continue with whatever it is that brain of yours cooks up?”
Trevor smiled as I typed more words, the letters forming into ideas and events, and paragraphs of movement that flow and flit and lift, his body shone and zap, leapt to a better world.