Post by Ira Defaire on Oct 17, 2015 7:24:00 GMT -5
Essentially, don't you think that life is stranger than fiction?
Once upon a time, the power and of the word "Love" still existed, the world was still tranquil, with minor blips that was easily smoothed over with compromising conferences and genuine smiles. Despite the desperate efforts inputted by mortals to maintain the system, it went futile and stale, for some that seek conflict could not be contained.
Her eyes were savage, as though she spent her life prowling about and pouncing on others before promptly tearing their throats out. She walked deliberately and warily on the city streets, contemptuously staring at wrinkled old man jeering and puffing out cigarette smoke with their rotting lungs. Her expression was flat, and her fist was clenched thoroughly, as though she would willingly punched someone in the face to release the bout of restlessness and anger that had resided in her for a long time.
She had to swallow a lump in her throat when she finally reached her house, only to find him standing stoically on her pouch, as she had told him to do so half an hour ago, via frantic calling. However, a minor part of her had viciously hoped that he didn’t turn up, such that they can lambaste her constantly for harboring false hopes. Her breath hitched when her dark eyes met his, but neither of the pair of orbs had any emotions they were willing to display. Rather, one was filled with simple curiosity, and hers was contaminated with a certain amount of flatness, weariness and coldness. Both of them wanted answers, and the only way to attain such answers was to address the tension that had been plaguing her for days. She silently envied his obliviousness to the situation for the brief second, before she ploughed through the grass and walked up to him.
“What do you want?” He was the first to speak.
“Nothing,” she muttered tiredly, before bowing her head in shame.
How could she even explain the situation? She was filled with dread and longing, along with some disdain that she could even allow such emotions to reside within her for a while. Restless defined every atom in her body, and all she wanted to do was to scream and shriek. She knew who she was waiting for, yet she chose to entomb herself into some desperate search for someone that she could release her exasperation from. Such fleeting emotions were always flaky, and this time, they had left major destruction in their wake. They had left her bleeding to death on the pavement, but left sufficient energy for her despair, for she attempted to wipe blood off her wounds. The blood had spread in such a rapid speed, everything was being soaked, and while her hands attempted to wipe blood off her body, it was smearing more blood everywhere. She wanted to beg for forgiveness, yet, she could not quite comprehend precisely what she was supposed to be sorry for. She wanted to apologize for her existence, yet, while she tussled with her built-in nemesis –that was sneering at her- of the words that she needed to day, she knew that there was none. Fear was etched on her face, and she finally covered her face with her hands.
“I do not know anymore.” She whispered, as he shook his head and walked away.
She turned her back and bit harshly on her lips, feeling the blood pool in her mouth. Stupid. Stupid. She had said to herself, her heart flickering with anxious little thumps that were on the verge of hysteria. She rushed out fearfully towards the door of a cab, with a small, dim light indicating a wait for her. While the car was travelling, she had watched the exterior, feeling oddly suffocated by this minuscule bubble of safety, that was reassuring her about the horrors of the exterior world.
Pressing a few notes into his gnarled hands, she had repeatedly thanked him, while watching concern glow gently in his dark eyes. The taxi driver had wished her well, and genuinely met for a stranger to survive a healthy life, without too much altercations clawing at her soul. She had smiled then; her eyes had remained ebullient, while dutifully echoing his well-wishes. The night was sweeter-it taste like honey on her tongue, as she rushed into the woods.
The bonfire was still flickering maniacally, as the glowing embers of coal flared defiantly through the suffocating coat of sand that was tossed over them. The crickets continued on with their symphony as the orange and red hues echoed off those black orbs. Those eye lashes quivered bitterly, as though the weight of the world were determinedly oppressing them with all their vigor. Crimson and amber blurred as one, and everyone's eyes failed to notice a concealed piece of photograph hidden in the mini-inferno that fought with all it had against the tender wind. Within seconds, the photograph was reduced into a pile of dove-gray ashes that spoke of the isolation and silence that clung to it during its days of luxury. No hints were given and ashes embraced the proffered breeze, for within a few seconds, the green leaves of those trees mirrored the images of bees and suspended in midair for a brief second.
She was a minuscule firefly, flowing with the ebony pendulum of time. No mundane hands could stroke the shattering snow of the decades, nor could they ever stop the cascade of centuries as their hands wrinkled and their heartbeats faltered. The fullness of lips bloomed with crimson flourish and she was a fly caught into a spider's web, entranced by its loquacious words. Words were clinking against one another as of the pearls strung onto a piece of delicate chain; none resonated with the other. Her young fingers did touched the white plastic before her body flinched as the firm sound became reality.
How many were the causalities of words, the spade used for scarring the heart? It dug deep into the soft interior and pressed down with its might, hoping to create something that would sprout into another new stem; an emotion that would be the roots. One of the many who crossed their legs, settled down and cast anxious gazes for plump ants that scuttled and hurried back and forth, none except for one heard the war cries of the crickets as their raised their symphonies, the war cries against human's cruelty.
Her lips were sealed with viciousness, her eyes tainted with sarcastic politeness. There was no point, her lips would open and argue flatly, no point for god never gave a fuck about them. The veneer of expressive words was spread thin, for her supply of foul words ran low and felt the exhaust of her heart. Feelings were effortlessly impaled with her whipped-like tongue and actions were done placidly, like she wasn't even concern. Her eyes were the darkest abyss created, set in a round face with a pair of furrowed eyebrows that scorned upon every being. Her feet skidded against the scorched tar and her eyes scrutinized the artificial earth placed around her. An old man that carried a face adorned with wrinkles stared back at her, a cigarette dangled between his fingers full of sagging skin. Behind him, people were lounging and lazing around from the pillars of the food court, chatting with alcohol-stained breath. Their eyes spoke of giddiness and isolation; the disregard for tomorrows. They were cohesive towards life, only looking to dwindle the time away with alcohol and cigarettes, leering and staring at any girls that would dare to even stumble past them nervously.
She lived in a country where many would have stated as "blessed". However, it was a country with very little delights to spice up her live, every day piled full of homework, bland voices, simpering teacher's pets and boredom. Infinite amount of boredom that she tasted from the very tip of her magenta tongue existed in pairs, triplets, foursomes, even. It was blood that pooled in her hands that was cupped with mock prayer, her offering blind faith to the gods that never listened. It wasn't crimson that tainted her filthy fingernails; it was shame and multiple sufferings from extreme humiliation and repulse. Like a newspaper that offered its body to the flames, she was one that would spontaneously explode into an inferno. Her life was the weight of a single newspaper, easily surrendering to flames that would spark up her life.
"I would stand up again! I would fight to the very end of dawn!"
She would have burst into fits of hysteria at the irony of it all. After all, who would have guessed that these words would have rebelled against the very humans? Sharks were called inhumane, as their fangs eagerly consumed flesh, but who are the most bestial creatures of them all? Who were the ones that randomly speared each other and waved it off, viewing life as a ball to be tossed around in a game of basketball? Who were the ones that tread forward and shrieked with every fiber vibrating from their voices, every passion lambasting their own ideals? Who was the one that insisted they entertained no enmity to their own brothers and sisters, but turned on it like a savaging tiger, clawing off the trust from every syllable when war arose viciously, engulfing their morals with it?
Human souls were unpredictable apparitions that snaked back and forth from her fingers, determined to hold for a price, without actually having a price. Humans could enforce their pride and conscience despite having a promise of a plethora of money on line, but some could eagerly toss it away for a meagre sum.
She stared, wide-eyed, at her phone, as it rang uselessly. He wasn’t answering, and despite her constant promises that she could effortlessly stomp on him as though he was an insignificant factor in her life, her worry grew, as she failed to notice the wind picking up. Her hair was ruffled endlessly, as her panic grew. Her fingers shook, as she typed out a hasty text, before letting out a viable cry of pain.
She closed her mouth and shuddered. She was losing her own identity, if she had one to begin with. She needed to grasp it and clench it firmly within her grip, or her sanity might be the next factor that slammed down its good bye in her naïve face before long. She needed to remain reticent, and if calm was scoffed upon, she could cease to exist.
Perhaps what she desired wasn’t him, the dark, nihilistic boy that she convinced herself was a bird with a shattered wing. Perhaps what she desired was a fool’s paradise, an unearthly bliss that she could exist in, as an apparition of her own self, a fallen version of an arrogant human with a messiah complex.
Picking up a knife, she stared at the metal, and how it gleamed in the dark, with unspoken vows of pleasure and pain. Allowing another cry to be ripped from her body, she heard it resonate in her brain, as her mind went momentarily empty, stunning her with the brief relieved it has allocated to her. Her breathing hitched, as thoughts came rolling in, each carrying more abrasive content.
Should a human be gauged on their actions? For we judge ourselves on our intentions. Should we conform to the idea that good and evil could be defined through societal means, for it meant the biggest progress to society? If the freedom of expression was what caused revolutions to rain down on organic life forms, does one eradicate such, and ensure sufficient control to force upon a eustress environment, one that was deemed the most ideal of all? What is a human? What is a thought?
Where does a thought go, when it’s forgotten?
She knew the answers all along, for they had been nicely placed on an intricately decorated plate, right in front of her, the day water whipped earth. The answer was so ridiculously simple that it caused her to receive an earth-shattering moment of shock as to her lack of comprehension the moment her brain whispered questions and doubts to her heart.
She was a caged bird, trapped within its own wings of despair.
