The clouds, so numerous and uniform in their bleakness, march alike Sassoon's sleeping soldiers to the ends of the earth. A lone bird, obscured by the dark outline of sky, flits across her span of vision. She sits up and feels the subtle shift in pressure of the trampoline. Over the white fence, she sees the light post of the street slowly flicker to life, the chimney of the house behind smokes and veils the tall fern beside. It has long since forgotten its nicotine patches.
All this activity in a world that is so quite, yet she feels nothing. She does less than the immobile objects on either side of her. She does nothing.
Sometimes, she just wants it all to stop.
She wonders what it would be like if the predator would stop short of catching its prey. Would take a minute to listen to its surroundings. She wonders what the outcome would be then. Or if a corporate driven marketeer would stop and see the damage he has created in his wake. Would he even bat an eyelash?
Somehow, she feels we have moved so far out from the selves we used to be. Are we not all robots moving day to day in monotony? She asks vainly to herself. Or maybe it just seems this way to just her because she feels like a robot.
And she doesn't want to feel this way. She fights like hell to not be this way. To be precisely the opposite. But it is so hard when people are constantly screaming and unloading their problems with the world onto her as their sole constant. When the media taint any positive outlook she manages to procure.
It's like saying “50 people died today in a grand massacre, but don't fret. Smile, darling. It's all you've got now.”
She doesn't get it. Maybe she never will. But even if the humans of our generation taint this world, they'll never taint its skies. She finds hope in the stars.
They're the pure sprinkled beauty that won't ever be tamed. The innocence that won't ever be touched by the fatal chokehold of the human.
So she writes and writes, in futile ambition to redeem the day, fingering the strings of her ancient acoustic while he paints her wondrous visions of a world that no longer exists. And they stare in awe for a while as they slowly feel themselves fading away, like the smog you see outside your bay window, wondering why it ever chose to stay.
--Ani.
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Sigh. The man gave me the courage and audacity to write this.
3 comments:
You don't even need to look at the sky, most of the time.
I don't think so anyway, I think the world's great, because you know it's not bad.
I dunno, maybe I'm more optimistic then I thought, or that most think
>.<
Oh my goodness Mikee. You remind me of my optimistic self nowadays. It's nice to think that there are still people that look on the brighter side of things. We need more people like that, I say. Not to totally overthrow all pessimism because hey, while the optimist invented the airplane to fly, the pessimist created the parachute, but it would be nice.
^.^
I like to think of it as more informed acceptance of things that're too small and too temporary for me to change.
:)
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