Intro
Super random post. It's a sort of Waiting for Godot like piece, really. I wouldn't want to spoil it, so just go ahead.
It's not a great piece, I think. But I was in the mood and this flew out of my fingers, on to the screen. So different from what I was thinking of writing, but who am I to question my Muse?
It's not a great piece, I think. But I was in the mood and this flew out of my fingers, on to the screen. So different from what I was thinking of writing, but who am I to question my Muse?
Fair warning, it could be mildly depressing or hopeful. But which one, my dear reader, is completely up to you :)
Story
She walked into the empty kitchen and looked around for something to do.
The dishes were washed, she had had dinner outside so there was nothing to clean up. She stuffed her unfinished post midnight "snack" back into the fridge. Food was clearly incapable of filling up the giant hole of emptiness that acted like a black hole to her internal existence.
She should know, it had been years and she still kept on trying.
Trying and trying, on and on. Forward, to the fire, as did the Light Brigade.
Theirs was not to question, but to do or die.
Some trashy paranormal romance book author once wrote, "life sucks and then you die. Yeah, I should be so lucky."
Or something along those lines, anyway.
Very apropos.
Sometimes, you spend years not being suicidal, just simple wishing existence would cease to be.
That the infinite darkness insides you would swallow you up and you'd be brave enough to let yourself be taken in completely, but you never are.
They say that you're brave to keep fighting, to keep on living. George Washington says that the hardest thing to do is to keep living and fighting instead of dying in the glory of battle, to Alexander Hamilton who was still young, naive and looking to satisfy himself and raise his orphan status to something more than the vast emptiness of a dying fight inside of him.
She mused on thoughts of a musical, pretending to herself that they were historically accurate enough to be able to correctly represent the emotional state of the figures presented in the narrative.
Why was Ed Sheeran such a wonderful human being who kept making cheerful songs that depressed the living hell out of her?
Silly thoughts, she shook them out of her mind.
As she opened the door to her room, her breath caught in her throat- she was suddenly assailed by an inevitable shower of memories that were entwined with feelings she could never really shake.
They say heartbreak is cruel, but Time is a mistress that heals everything, especially that.
There are so many people, including her, who had gone through so much worse. Yet, it was something as simple and ridiculous as a failed love affair that haunted her forever.
It's worse when you're the reason it ended, even if it was for a legitimate reason and you still think you served the greater good for the one you loved. And still do.
It's nothing, she tells herself.
It's nothing, she physically wills herself to forget. Shaking her body, as if to shake the awful thoughts out of her mental prison, she pushes the door harder and walks in as if nothing happened.
She switches the main light off, and walks to her bed.
The empty bed feels as comfortable as always- nice and welcoming in the most hollow way of all.
She tucks herself into the quilt, it's not cold enough to put the radiator on yet.
She wills herself to be warm and happy.
The mental ice frosting her from the inside can't reach her toasty body. It can, however, almost convince her she's still freezing.
She's always freezing.
Ever since that last fateful week.
She switches her fairy lights on, marvelling at the beauty of such a simple, silly thing.
She'll never stop being a child.
Even though her innocence was destroyed so many times over, by so many men, women, boys and girls. They all tried and they'll keep trying.
She's a silly little girl though, they can't touch her inside.
Little ice princess, she's too cold to defrost.
The only person who shattered her could but that person never will.
She will never believe in anything besides fairytales.
She hates perfection, but her perfection always lay in her flaws. She saw the world for what it was- something beautiful and broken, something difficult and painful, something to destroy and preserve.
She loved like they did in the 16th century books she used to read at night with a torch, under the covers, secretly. She loves like the 18th century books she now reads openly, as part of the irrelevant but beloved work she indulges in.
She loves, like people wish they could love but can't.
But if they knew, they would destroy it.
Silly girl, she thinks she knows how to protect herself.
But she hurts because she will never stop love.
Never stop believing,
and therefore never stop hurting.
Love hurts, nobody knows that better than human beings.
They hurt her, but they can't break her.
She was broken too long ago.
Not by someone else.
That someone else was only a tool.
As with Icarus, the only person bringing about her destruction was herself.
But how can one stop themselves from flying too close to the sun?
To destruction?
It is the penultimate of human desire, to reach that which undoes.
That destroys.
It is that which one strives to, just so it can destroy so it can create anew.
With that thought, she lets herself drift off to sleep and switches off the fire hazardous fairy lights.
When she wakes up, it'll be a brand new Scarlet O'Hara kind of day.
Today will be gone, and tomorrow will be another day anew.
C'est la vie, ma cherie.
Sweet dreams, silly girl.
Doris Day will sing to you, Que Sera Sera, as always while Morpheus watches over you.
-x-
