A story of sorts
2005-05-31 @ 7:21 a.m. Where to begin with what's in my mind? Perhaps I won't even begin, because that would require an end, and Lord knows there's no end to my thoughts right now. So I will leave you with this:
The sun rose, deep and burning against the cool waters of early spring. Slivers of smooth light sprinted across the water’s surface, interrupted only by the brief and stifled movement of the slow churning. The gentle breeze stirred the long stagnant air, directing it, spurring it on. Twisting down from the intermittent waves, crashing against the finely packed sands, pouring over the earth, and receiving a final push of momentum as it proceeded down the winding side-roads. The warm breeze, smelling faintly of sea, sand, and overflowing with life, crept delicately through her open window, stirring her from a deep and unreflective sleep.
Her eyes half opened, then shut tight once more upon the intruding world. Lifting a pale hand, she flung the sheets over her tired head, finding comfort once more in the softly layered folds. It was beneath these sheets, buried within a world of dreams and incognizance, that she found her refuge. She left the scents of spring and rebirth to grow faint in the distance, although the remnants of its presence still stung her nostrils with each passing breath. "Numb it all away," she recited almost effortlessly. She had long ago learned the art of acquiring an unhealthy distance from any reality which could induce the invasion of vulnerability.
Her thoughts once more melted away, until they took on a life of their own, reality blurring with her own groggy perception of it. Sleep found her once more, and held her tight in its grasp, her potential extinguished by the welcoming beckon of lethargy. >[? Yet again, and this time with greater intensity, the full scented breeze hurled itself through the open window, caught hold of her unstable sanctuary of blankets, and tore them from her. She lie cold and defiant for quite some time, until she could no longer resist the persistence of morning.
With a hollow, resounding sigh, she pushed herself up, her thin arms struggling to hold the weight of her frail body. Now sitting hunched over and disheveled amid a haphazardly arranged mountain of red silken sheets, her slender hands made their way to her face, unsuccessfully attempting to scrub all remnants of sleep from her tired eyes.
Her hands, pale and bone, as though long deprived of utility and light, dug even deeper into the caverns of her eyes. Deep blue eyes, perceptive yet deceptive, devoid of light and life. She continued to furrow her starving hands into her eyes, until she felt the last fibers of sleep drift into the cool, dense air surrounding her.
Glancing aimlessly around her tiny bedroom, her hand reached upwards, unconsciously sweeping the long strands of black hair from her milky countenance, revealing the treasure which had lost all value.
A face once beautiful, with its high cheek bones and thin lines, faded away beneath years of neglect. She lifted an awkward leg from her bed, and then another, and rose with such effort that every fragmented portion of her being ached, right down to the very core. She forced herself to the mirror, deciding which mask to wear for the day. Slow, dragging footsteps proceeded her, as her consciousness lingered behind, making her solemn pilgrimage across the room, now flooded with daylight.
She hated the light with an indescribable fervor, stepping into the shadows as often as possible. Yet, before the clean, shining, taunting mirror, there was no refuge from the light. The dark corners lingered behind, as she cringed beneath the brightest rays, suddenly cold as the sunlight poured over her, dripping across the contours of her brittle frame. In the shadows, one finds deception easy and pleasant- the sunlight stings the wounds obtained in the shadows.
She stared intently, uncertain and hopeful that the figure glaring at her though the glass was not herself. And yet she knew it was, raising her heavy hand, pressing it slightly against the cold. She hoped it would shatter the vision before her, reveal the reality of who she was. Yet this was her reality- this was a crystal reflection of her deterioration, of who she had allowed herself to become over the course of time.
My Past with No Future