but honestly I have writers’ block that goes so far beyond writers’ block, it’s horrifying.
I’m genuinely trying to get back in the swing, so those of you who are kind of into the story… hang tight, please!
The weather, often the clichéd reflection of a protagonist’s disposition or situation is not always accurate in real life.
For example, the day was lovely. Tragic in a way, but lovely nonetheless. Heavy layers of snow smothering the Earth, asphyxiating its growth and hiding the slow demise from view. The tragedy: death disguised behind a glittering mask. Or in some cases, entirely undisguised, but unnoticed no less.
…
“A walk?” She proposed, still partially in the grasp of slumber.
“To take in the full beauty of winter?”
“Yes. And to breathe. To watch the snow fairies dance… A moment alone with nature would do us all some good.”
A moment alone with death, as nature is right now.
…
As much as I insist on catalyzing the reactions in my life, taking things into my own hands, I have learned one must coax a rock up the hill before she acquires the ability to roll it down the other side.
That hill, myself. A treacherous terrain, should I choose to put it sweetly, regularly resulting in the downfall of those who envision climbing it. Yet this woman climbed, undoubtedly an experienced mountaineer, and has reached the top miraculously unscathed. The apex. The climax of our relationship, and the peak of my gracious allowance of her to breach as far forward as she had. Thus the discovery of my other side had all but to commence- the visage of which is to be likened to a curt Cliffside: unforgiving and unapologetic.
…
So I watched the day, the hour unfold. The undoing of a paper crane.
She was elegant as such, and light on her feet as the bird would likely be. Dancing with the fairies she spoke of- little spots in the snow, a trick of the eye created by the bounce of Sun off the multifaceted crystals of ice.
Ice.
A patch just ahead, opportunity presenting himself to me to disorient, humiliate and wound a target. To sufficiently bring her down.
…
The sharp click.
The cold metal.
The intoxicating stiffness of her body as awareness flooded her.
…
I waited for her to beg, but she didn’t. Perhaps it was her Foolish pride, or a decision to deprive me of that pleasure, but either way the irritation slithered under my skin and caused my fingers to itch and twitch at the trigger.
“I am going to be something great,” I said. “You told me that yourself.”
Her head began to move. At first I thought she was crying, and the heated anger in my flesh began to subside, delighted with such a reaction. I realized as she spoke that she was, in fact, shaking her head. Slowly and subtly, just enough to convey the disgust she obviously felt despite the apathy in her voice.
“I loved you, but you’re Nothing now.”
It took only a moment.
But what is a moment? Is it a second? Is it less? Perhaps a heartbeat, maybe the last. Or is it defined by the events that transpire in that span of time rather than the time itself? A moment, a single moment, in which gravity lets loose its vice grip and I would swear I soared the sky. Surrounded by her infinity, with only a blinding eternity ahead, behind, above and below.
Or is a moment nothing?
A speck of dust, as we never fail to become. Ultimately meaningless despite what we, or I, thought it may have meant. For it fades or snaps from existence- only a memory- sometimes distant, sometimes so clear I’d think I’m living it just then, just now.
A moment is not a promise, no matter how many we shared together. A moment, like a rainbow, is simply an illusion. Briefly beautiful, and often enchanting, but still just an illusion in the end. A trick of the Sun shining through the rain.
An illusion as the possibility of an “us” inevitably was.
No, a moment is not a promise, save the promise of its end.
Our end.
Her end.
Thus we parted ways. She on her knees with a bullet in the back of her neck, and me with my finger on the trigger.
I loved her. I swear I loved her.
Perhaps the lamentably beautiful weather was an accurate portrayal after all. My life: the cliché.
poisonpenletters asked: I can't wait for you to put this story together, the pieces so far are amazing.
I had a bit of writers’ block and lost a fair amount of time, but I’m trying to get back on track and hope to progress.
Thank you for your kind words, they encourage me to write =)
I have dreamed of her. Or more precisely, I have dreamed as her, for I know the eyes through which I saw were not mine, and I viewed the terrible beauty that I am in a way that could only be through hers.
We were together, our hands locked, and we approached the gates of a city soon to be our Hell.
I loved you, but you’re nothing now.
I heard the words clearly in my head as though she were kneeling in front of me, speaking them again.
It was only after waking that I realized that the ghost caught in the winds of the city was not her, but me. I felt outrage at the audacity of my own mind to cast me in such a role on any level of my consciousness.
As I sat here trying to grasp the last bits of the dream as they were slipping away, I glanced to my hands, resting innocently in my lap, and imagine them stained red. I moved quickly to wipe them clean lest anyone be watching and notice the proof of my guilt.
Upon further inspection, I found them immaculate as they must have been the entire time. A trick of my mind, visions left over from my close proximity to dream state.
I rose from bed appearing, to anyone caring to observe, entirely unshaken.
I’ve created something that has been lodged in my soul, embedded itself into the very essence of me. An Yygdrasil with its base blackened in my heart. There are roots of a world working their way into the walls of muscle, pushing through tissue, and winding through arteries. Every pump of blood nourishes it and encourages it to grow.
Credit goes to whom it is due, and the seed was planted and loved by my Sun. But the Sun burned out, and I finished the job. Alone. As it has always been until now. Now I have this tiny universe to fit in the palm of a god’s hand, and a mass of believers who live in it.
My world is full of life, and greater than your city of ghosts could ever have been.
I loved you, but you’re nothing now.
And I made you that way.
As may be obvious, Sol isn’t the most mentally stable. Her instability has a tendency to almost feed off itself, only sending her further into a disordered state. Like many people with mental disorders, Sol has her moments of lucidity (demonstrated on the rare occasions she questions her motives and her means), and her moments of more extreme disordered thinking. This case is a bit of the latter, in which Sol, having learned about Narcissistic Personality Disorder in class, spirals into the delusion that some nonexistent character has declared she suffers from it, and she becomes obsessed with proving him wrong.
Reactions are bound to happen. In the realm of Fools, it’s called “fate.” We have here more than a multitude of bodies and personalities combined with ignorance and an inability to control environmental factors. With this slew of potentiated disaster drifting aimlessly around the world- crashing into and glancing off of each other and the walls spawned of limited imagination and intellect- sooner rather than later, a reaction is bound to happen.
Somewhere, a person will collide with a situation and he will respond. A simple, elegant truth. To a select group, these collisions are “obviously” meant to be, destined, as it were, to take place and cause a reaction that changes the course of one or millions of lives, because some hidden deity decided thusly. All of which is brilliantly accurate save the unfortunate and obtuse notions of god and destiny.
Since it is clear that reaction is inevitable, but not set in stone, the next obvious step is to formulate a way to manipulate those reactions in a manner favorable to me: an induction of catalysis.
In this Realm, that of Fools, the role of court jester is inaccurately and regrettably associated with the minority who attempt to derail the “hand of god” train of thought. Were I less clever, my life would be bound to playing that role. As I am a sly thing, I have managed to cast myself into a part of more influence and prestige: the heir apparent, waiting to take reign.
As the presumed mouthpiece of god, my word simply is. So I am the artist who designs the “fate” of the reactants, and I am the catalyst that initiates the reaction for my personal benefit.
My drum, off beat from the rest, sets the rhythm for a song that appears, deceptively, to follow the tune of “Fate.” Enticed by the familiarity of lyric, the common Fool will sing along, fortuitously changing the tap, tap, tap of his drum to mimic my own.
If any single piece of eternity actually mattered, then wouldn’t it be wounded with the death of those pieces? Do you really think your existence, and in little time the lack thereof, is going to phase forever?
Ladies and Gentlemen: the Human Ego.
The essence of a person is derived from the most complex of recipes, with ingredients based in Nature and Nurture. It’s curious the way any one human can be broken down into bits and pieces and analyzed on every level to find out exactly what makes him tic.
The process almost removes the humanity from the subject. Looking at all the details and intricacies of something can easily cause one to forget that those fragments are parts of a whole.
Sometimes I wonder how much that matters, though. Everything is just made up of pieces. Then, even when a Whole is made, it’s not actually whole, it’s a part of something bigger, which is also a part of something bigger, on until infinity.
How then, can anything matter except infinity?
