Silver-wolfe (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} silver_wolfe) wrote,@ 2005-10-12 23:29:00 |
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cant sleep so posting begining of a new Story i'll never finish
PRELUDE
I'm a forgotten one. There is no real set point that it happened. My life just faded away like an old photograph then was gone. No one hears me or sees me. If it wasn’t for the reflection I see in the mirror I don’t think even I would believe I existed. What brought me to this point? Destiny? Fate? Who knows, looking back I see now that I was born alone, I live my life alone, and soon, I'll die alone. Realization an acceptance, odd you would think this would make us something rather then confirm our nothingness, our endlessness, our void.
Pushing away from the sink I sigh, my shoulders slump. This is me, who I am. Nothing. Forgotten. The world swirls and pulses around me, people drift in and out of my vision like eddies in a tidal pool, insubstantial and never lasting. It all flows over and around me, never marking me or me touching upon it. My day ends as it begins, staring into the mirror before i shove off to bed, my reflection leaving about as much a mark on this world as I do.
It came to me that night, blossoming as a dream in the landscape of my mind, perhaps the only place left with a vibrancy in a gray mist of being. I didn’t know where I was... It had to be a dream the colors to sharp and clear to me, the grass a flowing green scape of color dotted with purple flowers lazily swaying back and forth as lily pads in a pond rippled by the touch of a finger. Tranquil. It was all broken with a searing pain in my back, looking down I see the end of something long and sharp sticking out of my chest. Surrealism. The blood dripping from it is mine, the pain is mine, and this moment is mine alone.
"You must die before you can truly have lived."
The words come unbidden to me as I sink to my knees, the limp strings that supported my puppet frame cut. The frail Purple flowers now speckled with the dots of my blood, but still the clarity of color, the green of grass, the purple of the flowers, the red of my blood. I pull my eyes from this sight and look up, and up, and up. The blue sky rolls into view as I collapse to my back. More pain exploding as the hilt of the object thrust though me further. My last thought as my sight exploded and was gone was "Even the forgotten believe they are alive, just insubstantial, odd thing dieing."
And the sky began to weep, but not for me, for the dieing of the day
PRELUDE
I'm a forgotten one. There is no real set point that it happened. My life just faded away like an old photograph then was gone. No one hears me or sees me. If it wasn’t for the reflection I see in the mirror I don’t think even I would believe I existed. What brought me to this point? Destiny? Fate? Who knows, looking back I see now that I was born alone, I live my life alone, and soon, I'll die alone. Realization an acceptance, odd you would think this would make us something rather then confirm our nothingness, our endlessness, our void.
Pushing away from the sink I sigh, my shoulders slump. This is me, who I am. Nothing. Forgotten. The world swirls and pulses around me, people drift in and out of my vision like eddies in a tidal pool, insubstantial and never lasting. It all flows over and around me, never marking me or me touching upon it. My day ends as it begins, staring into the mirror before i shove off to bed, my reflection leaving about as much a mark on this world as I do.
It came to me that night, blossoming as a dream in the landscape of my mind, perhaps the only place left with a vibrancy in a gray mist of being. I didn’t know where I was... It had to be a dream the colors to sharp and clear to me, the grass a flowing green scape of color dotted with purple flowers lazily swaying back and forth as lily pads in a pond rippled by the touch of a finger. Tranquil. It was all broken with a searing pain in my back, looking down I see the end of something long and sharp sticking out of my chest. Surrealism. The blood dripping from it is mine, the pain is mine, and this moment is mine alone.
"You must die before you can truly have lived."
The words come unbidden to me as I sink to my knees, the limp strings that supported my puppet frame cut. The frail Purple flowers now speckled with the dots of my blood, but still the clarity of color, the green of grass, the purple of the flowers, the red of my blood. I pull my eyes from this sight and look up, and up, and up. The blue sky rolls into view as I collapse to my back. More pain exploding as the hilt of the object thrust though me further. My last thought as my sight exploded and was gone was "Even the forgotten believe they are alive, just insubstantial, odd thing dieing."
And the sky began to weep, but not for me, for the dieing of the day
