call to nothing

‘twas another day. In a way penned distinctly. The allure of language beckoned him in just that- an “alluring,”, “beckoning” sort of way. Whence it came he wouldn’t know- thus did he feel, but it seemed dynamically archaic, if that was fathomable. (or was it archaically dynamic)

A different day, this one. The air smelt different, the walk felt different. No, he could smell the air today, feel the walkway…that, was the difference. But it was not sweeping, this change. Rather, it felt incremental. And then that word conjured up disappointment.

For he often felt these incremental changes, prodding him gingerly on certain days of comfortable sun and bouncy feet. Their suggestions seemed energizing, their possibilities infinite, their promise immense. Yet.

Yet they merely nudged his brain, gently tapped the shoulder of his mind; and after the initial reaction, the instinctive surprise, the spontaneous excitement, his mind would slip. It would loosen the grip, or the grip on it would be loosened. It would stray from its new encouragement, give in to its ineptitude. It would let go of its inspiration, and sigh inevitably.

What was it, again, that beckoned him so?
It was just another day, Anion thought.