The Character and the Creator

The night is dark, light by some idle street lamp. Its beam shines softly through the window, distorted by the flakes of snow that flit haphazardly around it. My fingers are cold tonight; numb almost. The paper is due tomorrow, but the screen before me is blank. I know the story I want to tell and I can see the face of my impatient character staring at me even now. Hurry up, he urges. I crack my fingers and the sound is sharp in the otherwise silent room. Hesitantly I place my fingers back onto the keys and then I wait as seconds fade into minutes.
Nothing. Not the slightest whisper of inspiration or direction.
He taps anxiously on my shoulder; pain etched on his face. I try to ignore it. He takes a seat on the side of the desk and stares down at me with unforgiving eyes like the ghost of a tormented angel. I have to set him free, but to do so hastily or without thought would mean his death. I am his creator, and thus I have all the potential to be his destroyer as well.
The screen glows in front of me and small particles of dust drift beneath the light of the small lamp, as if disturbed by his presence. Please, he begs. I begin to type, slowly at first, but my pace quickens with each click of the keys. Where is he from? I don’t know. His identity is pinned to his sleeve, but I don’t understand it yet. His journey is a long one and the road winds in ways I cannot yet imagine. He is a reality spun of glass and plastic, of frustration and desperation. I look up. His hair has fallen across his face, casting a shadow over one eye.
Melted thoughts and half-formed sentences are my constant companion in these early hours. My hands shake, and I shut my eyes. Focus. Focus. Focus. The story will go with me-- shut out amongst dusty pages and dead ideas. The keys click faster under my control, with an unspoken urgency that screams through the dead end I am at. Where's he going? I fear that I may have lead him down a road with no end. He's cold, dead, lost --doomed to wander and worse, doomed to know. Focus. Focus. Focus. He face is contorted in anguish, but he sits so still I fear he has ceased to be. He flicks his head in a half-hearted nod at me, his way of encouraging me to go on. I am the only one who will tell the tale of his life. For who will give meaning to his pain, if not me? I am the one who must give him a name through the telling of his beautiful face and his somber ways. It is no small task.
Crumpled papers are scattered across the floor, like white flowers picked before their time. They are not but twisted thoughts and beginnings that I cannot end. Help me, he mouths with is cracked lips, free me. I don’t think I can. Words force themselves out of my mind: hope. It is only a four letter word and I laugh at its treachery. Hope can't help him… only I can. I am hope when there is no hope. I am nothing. I am everything. I am the creator. I am the destroyer. Focus. Focus. Focus. I squeeze my eyes shut once more. My hands form a too-tight frame around my face in an attempt to force the information from it. Focus. Focus. Focus. Pain pounds in my head, towards the back, like the dull thud of gavel that sentences me to failure. Make it stop.
I look to him, to be reassured that he is still there. His eyes bore into mine, and I feel his hand reach through the cavity of my chest to grip the heart that beats beneath. I can feel his breath on my face as he leans towards me and presses his forehead lightly against mine, causing sparks to trace along the nerves of my mind. They leave fires behind them, ideas raging violently, fueled by the dry tinder of fatigue. My fingers now move of their own will. Somehow I am pouring him into the screen, placing him softly within my ardent language. I have given him a direction-- a home.
Words, sentences, pages… they fly from the printer and hit the floor. Set him free. Let him go. Focus. Focus. Focus. Step back. Breathless, I look to his face. Thank you, he whispers. I blink and when my eyes reopen he is hazy, distorted. Panic halts my breath -- did I act as the destroyer after all? But no, his distant finger points to the paper at my feet and there in the small, black letters I see his face clearly. His is relaxed, the dark circles beneath his eyes now gone. As I glance back up to the desk, where he sat just moments before, I see the last quiver of his form before he is gone. The dust dances in his passing. I have set him free at long last.
I collect the pages from the floor and bind them together with a sharp snap of the stapler. As I place the fragile sheets in their folder I pause for a moment. Have I done him a disservice by sending him off to critiqued? Will I cheapen him by allowing his essence to be graded? Will I lose him in a score?
No, he murmurs, his voice far away. I let out a heavy sigh. I realize that instead of depreciating him I have given him a voice. I have done what only I could do. I have given others a glimpse of what only my eyes could see. Tomorrow my hands will shake as I turn it in, and I will be filled with doubt, as always. Will they sense the fervor and vehemence with which I created a being out of not but a shadow? Will they see the beautiful ghost that has now been freed through a simple assignment? Maybe, but it doesn’t matter: he is free.

I look so foolish standing here with my paper heart in hand. What was I thinking?

I wasn't.

I've got little to offer. No stablitity, only passion. No promises, just hope. Not what you're looking for.

It's the same story you've heard before. Someone else has beat me and I am left with nothing else to give. Just more of the same.

I want to walk away, each moment I linger I only cement my own stupidity. Though maybe less so because I am aware.

Or perhaps more so.

I have no excuse and even I have lost sight of what is is I want. Is it you? It used to be. I thought it still was...
But maybe it is only but a shadow of you that I love. A ghost. Nothing with a heartbeat.

And whispers make such horrible companions. Though perisistant ones, to say the least.

Why can't you just run me away? Forbid me from staying. Leave nothing more for me to cling to.
Play fair for once in your life.

Set me free, I beg of you.

Modern Day Revolution

Staring at the television screen our eyes go blank as a smothering sense of hopeless apathy overtakes us. We turn to each other as in bitterness as we take a shot to dull the stinging loss. Amidst the smoke of the bar the final tally has been called in the newscaster’s monotone voice, smug with a misplaced sense of victory. Cheers erupt in the streets and on the screen the camera pans to another crowd outside our country’s capital, giving those of us who have endured defeat another slap in the face. We step outside to smoke our cigarettes that we once were able to smoke where we pleased and inhale the cold night air.
We can remember the hope that had encompassed us just months and weeks, even days, before. Life, Liberty, and Freedom. With those ideals in our hearts had we proudly marched to the voting booths. Pens powerfully heavy in our hands we had colored in small circles on those crisp, white sheets of paper that would decide our future. We had believed that this time would be different, that finally our voices would be heard. It was this time that was supposed to send a message to those falsely in charge. Instead we found our strangled cries ignored yet again. With a heavy foot on our backs they shoved us and our ideas of revolution below.
We seek only to restore what our predecessors fought for so long ago, and once again all they can see is treason. We are dangerous with our thoughts of unalienable rights and our love for dated pieces of paper. They laugh in our faces and call us extremists as if the word is an insult. They ignore us, berate us, spit on us and attempt to ban us from existence. They want nothing less than our immediate death; we are a threat if we are allowed to continue. Our words are sparks and they can’t afford to have them catch. We are matches whose strength they would like to wash away.
Little do they know that they cannot kill us off. We are more than just faces in a crowd. We are more than calloused hands, sore backs and tattooed shoulders. We are more than the flags we fly and the signs we carry. We are more than the words we yell and the riots we incite. We are more than the songs we sing at the top of our lungs. We are more than the bricks we throw and the windows we shatter. We are change. We are ideas. And ideas are bulletproof, my friend. Ideas do not die; they cannot be washed away; they cannot ever be fully silenced. As long as we remain to fight they will go on. And should our mortal lives ever be stamped out those ideas still carry on, in the voices of the wind and in the hearts of the young.
It is with this thought that we snap out of our momentary comatose state. The revolution has only begun and we will not abandon it so soon. We are the angry, the desperate, the passionate, the true warriors of change. We are the ones that accept nothing but our Freedom. Our knees will never bend to a government corrupt. Our ears do not hear the beautiful lies spewed by wax figure politicians. It is we that carry Liberty’s torch still. In this Republic we are the tireless minority who speak on behalf of the mindless majority. We are the kink in the system; the wrench in the gears. We are the persistent advocates of the drones that follow the lies of their political caretakers.
You see us every day, but you don’t know our names. We flood the streets, but the media attempts to edit us away and keeps our pictures from the pages and the screens. But through the means of the underground we fill your lives just the same. At times we are the tired nine-to-five employee angrily flipping the pages of a recent newspaper you pass on the bus. Other times we are the punk rioters in your streets with our “fuck the state” tees and our ripped jeans. Sometimes we are the wrinkled face of the elderly who sit quietly in the pub, drink in hand, wondering if we’ll ever see our time come. And still other times we are the eccentric blemishes on your street corners, passing out literature you throw away in the trash while still looking at us. We force you to think, to feel, to rise up against which so comfortably oppresses you. We ask you to cast aside safety for Liberty; security for choice. And oh how you believe you hate us.
But we will never stop. Even when the blood runs from our mouths and our faces swell with bruises we still scream our resolute “no”! We happily endure the pain that comes from our frighten tormentors. We will survive. We never surrender. We never accept silence. We never stop pushing. We never allow our messages to be stopped. We have proved time and time again that we will survive. And now, in the face of our most recent set back, we fight. You may join us if you wish. Grab a sign, and take your courage from the dusty shelf you left it on. Choose to join us, or do not. We are you and so we continue regardless of the choice we fight for you to be able to make. But do not every make the grave mistake of trying to stop us. You’ve more to lose than we do. Our Freedom and Liberty has already been claimed- yours hangs in the balance still.

Surrender

Her throat is raw and aching from the yelling. The past hours have been spent screaming in an attempt to explain what she herself is unsure of. She can’t even remember how the fight got started but it doesn’t matter, they all end the same way. Her hands are sweaty and cold now, losing their claw-like grip on the phone. Sitting there on the faded green couch, with the pale brown walls creeping in on her she can feel her hands start to shake and in her mouth she can taste metallic shards of blood. The pricking sensation of fresh tears only fuels her anger and she unsure of how much longer she can stay in control.
“Are you still there?” echoes the question in his familiar, lilting voice. She can hear the irritated demand, but the words sound distorted and far away. The sentences swim above her head and she can feel her lungs begin to burn with a lack of air. Suddenly she is on her feet and in an equally swift movement her phone splinters into a dozen plastic pieces as it impacts the wall. The tiny bits lay on the floor looking helpless and she momentarily regrets taking her anger out on the innocent object now scattered about her feet. The anger pulsing through her veins won’t let her regret last long however. She is on her feet now, and they are moving her towards the door, but she can’t remember telling them to do so. Walking like someone under a trance she comes face to face with the door; her way to escape the smothering surroundings of this still house. Her fingers grasp the handle and it is cool beneath her fingers; a soft contradiction to the force with which she twists it open. The sudden surge of violence leaves the screen door swinging repeatedly against the brick siding as she trips down the steps that lead to the street; the sound rings in her ears.
Outside the leaves have begun to curl with anticipation of rain. In her haste she didn’t think to grab a jacket and her arms shiver in protest. The sky is a dull grey and the sun has not chosen to show its face today. Wind dances with the dried leaves that litter the street, swirling up from the ground and then slowly filtering back down with a subtle, erratic grace. With her feet still independently in control she finds herself sprinting down the street. Curious faces blur past as her shoes pound the pavement in a steady rhythm. She hates them, all of them. With their perfectly painted houses and perfectly trimmed lawns- what do they know of life but barbeques with neighbors they secretly hate? Fake smiles and feigned interest; she runs faster.
A few blocks later, gasping for air, she finds that the cement has at some point turned to dirt and the grass of well-manicured lawns to rocks. Bent over in fatigue she squints at the lake quivering before her. Of course, though her mind was unaware, her legs knew right where to lead her.
Beneath a small assembly of trees stands the frame of the old, rotted bench swing which creaks beneath her sudden collapse of weight upon it. Smells of earth and a sudden dampness swirl about her, consuming her. Above the clouds have assumed position of authority in the sky, and their distant grumblings speak of rain. Even now the wind smells of water. As she sits alone, with her back hard against the crumbling wood of the bench, she wishes that life would pause for a year or two, leaving her here at the edge of this rippling lake. Time to think, that is what she had told him she needed. Here, with the lake as her backdrop she wants only to think about the sound of the trees; of the birds that cry in mock concern for the coming storm; of the dry rustle of the reeds; of the squeak of the chains that suspend the bench as she rocks back and forth.
Thunder rumbles again, closer this time, and with it come the first drops of rain. The drops splatter her shoes and in the water around her, making soft, wet noises as they land. They run down her bangs and onto her chin, pooling finally in the folds of her shirt. She lets her head fall back to rest against the bench; eyes closed she lets the droplets take the place of stubborn tears she cannot cry. Her hands relax from their claw-like state at her side; surrender.
Amidst the downpour she hears the approach of unsure footsteps; they pause hesitantly at her left. Her eyes blink open to see a face staring at her own, questions illuminating the familiar, murky green eyes. His hair is damp, and sticking out in places as if his fingers have run through it too often. His hands are balled into fists and jammed into his pockets; shoulders slightly hunched. Their eyes lock and the whisper of a smile shimmers in her eyes, but doesn’t quite make it down to her mouth.
“What are you doing here?” her voice comes out dry and uneven.
He doesn’t answer right away, and instead remains standing with his foot absently tracing lines in the dirt that is quickly becoming mud. Beneath the slight roof of the bench she is sheltered from brunt force of the rain, but this drenched Greek god before her has no relief. Instead his black tee shirt has become a second skin and his shaggy, espresso-colored locks are now molded to his forehead.
“Call it fate.”
“Meaning I ran past your house and you followed me.” He smiles and dips his head in agreement.
“Mind if I sit down?” He asks, giving his wet hair a slight shake. A few of the droplets land on her arm.
“I’m a little tired from the run,” he adds.
His breath is all too even, exposing his half-hearted lie. With a sweeping motion of her hand she motions to the open space beside her. His tall frame bends slightly to fit beneath the shelter of the roof as he sits down. He gives his hair a tousle and as his arm falls back to his side she notices the small tattoo located at the inside of his wrist. She loves this tattoo, it’s a small sunset scene with the words “A Norterst” written in surprisingly delicate lettering; a stark contrast to his strong hands that led up to his tanned arms. She doesn’t know what the phrase means though, she has never asked.
Her fingers fidget with a rip in her jeans, near her right knee. She twists a stray thread around her finger; the pressure turns her finger a sickly purple color before it finally snaps. Still focused on the frayed tear she asks.
“What do the words in your tattoo mean?”
“Hmmm? Oh, they’re Latin for ‘from start to finish’.” His hands are warm on hers as he gently pulls her fingers away from the hole in his jeans and into his hand instead. She traces the words on his wrist with one finger. She looks out towards the disturbed waters. The rain has dimmed to sprinkle and the horizon has begun to shift its hue. Bright pinks, faded yellows and fiery reds have taken the place of the former blue and grey streaked clouds. Seconds turn to minutes but the silence is not uncomfortable; it is not forced. As the sun become serious about reclaiming its place low in the sky and the light strengthens even as it begins to dim she speaks again.
“Why did you get it? The tattoo I mean. I’ve known you for years and I don’t even know what significance it holds for you.”
“I love the sunset. When the light clings only to the bottom of the sky, casting its light strongly still; it is in those moments that I feel alive. If only because I know that I have indeed made it through one more day, that each tick of the clock has brought me to this point. It speaks to me, congratulating me on all I have overcome; on what I can now refer to as my past. I have competed the day from start to finish.”
He goes silent, just looking at her with those great green eyes, waiting for her response. She loves looking at his face, his perpetually clenched jaw, his soft lips, and his eyes shadowed beneath his lashes.
And so they sat together on the bench, watching the sunset stake its claim among the lingering clouds. She thought about her earlier fight, and for a fleeting moment the rage came surging back, but just as quickly it was gone. She looks at his tattoo again and is enveloped by a sense of tranquility. There were days when she was happier to see the sunset than for it to rise, but they were only a few days of many. From start to finish; that’s all that life was- a journey from start to finish.

Reflections from a Lunch Table

She is sitting at the smudged, off white lunch table like she has done so many times before. But today is different, even as everything is the same today as it has been for the past four years. Her friends sit adjacent from her, their trays of food set haphazardly before them. Backpacks scribbled with Sharpie litter their feet. They are laughing now, at some joke that’s been told too many times to count. All of their worries are gone, replaced with the bliss of indifference. Too bad her own worries don’t slip away as easily. They float around her like constant, uprooted shadows. If she sits still enough in the hard, plastic chair she can almost feel them whispering around her face.
Outside the window the leaves have begun to turn back to green. They’re still wet and glimmering from last nights rain. The afternoon sunlight cuts through the window to light up the table across from hers with its harsh radiance. It glints off the silverware of her tray, sending shards of light in every direction. This is the last time she will watch the trees make their journey from brown to green and back again from this chair. Right now is the last chance she’ll have to memorize every detail. The cracks in the floor, filled with the dirt and dust of dreams. The scribbles on the underneath of the table, timid thoughts not ready to be unveiled. The handmade posters in bright maroon paint strung from end to end of the cafeteria.
She knows though, despite her mental cataloging, that she will forget. Sooner, she suspects, rather than later. She will watch the leaves of a different tree turn and curl with fall from another window, in another town. She will watch time pass from another seat, another building. The faces around her will soon be those of strangers.
Her attention is brought back to her own table. Her friends are speaking to her, asking her what she’s looking at. They stare at her with young, eager faces. Bright eyes and smiling mouths turn their attention to her, curiosity coloring their expressions. And what can she say? For she is looking at life, the throbbing essence of it. She is looking at the past, but she is also looking at the future. Here in this crowded cafeteria she sees all that has been and all that is to come. She sees beginnings and endings in the faces of her friends. Amidst the smells of food, sweat, and pencil lead she catches a trace of something else: anticipation, and fear.
They’re still waiting for an answer. She smiles a faraway smile, then answers.
“Nothing.”
That’s all it takes to seduce them back into comfort. Her simple reassurance further dampens their own fears, the ones they hide much better than she.
What is it about leaving that has her so terrified? Maybe it’s having to leave behind all the relationships she worked so hard to create, the friendships she invested so much time in. Hours on the phone intently discussing the day’s events for the fourth time, with the receiver smashed up against her ear, assignments left undone on her desk. The endless typing of frantic e-mails sent to those who would understand the importance of such frivolous topics. The hot summer days spent planning the then distance future with foolish anticipation. It’s being afraid she’ll forget what she swore she’d always remember. It’s knowing she will. Memories once vivid will fade like the tired posters that line the hallways. Photographs and folded notes written in bright ink will be all that is left to tell the story. The story of a beginning, and of an end.
That’s what frightens her. It’s all of those things. Knowing that those who know her best will find someone else to fill the lonely spaces, the empty seat, and the quiet moments. But more than that, it’s knowing she’ll do the same. She will become the traitor. She will forget, move on, and mourn them only in passing. Their place will be only in dreams and in offhanded conversation. Soon they will become someone she knew, rather than someone she knows. It is this then that she fears: the inevitable change that’s charging towards her, towards all of them. She fears she will welcome it, accept it. She fears she will invite it. She knows she will.
It is happening already. As they stand to leave the table they pause for a group picture. In her head she names it the last. The confident words “until then” taste of goodbye. For never again will they exist as they do now. These last moments before everything changes…it’s the hardest goodbye. Hellos may follow after a time, but they will be tainted with the passing of days, weeks and months. Awkward silence will exist where before it did not. The stories they once loved will have gone stale, new stories with different characters will have taken their place. The vivid emotions they feel now will have dulled, taking on a dusty gray hue.
The bell rings, and her thoughts are forced back to the present. She picks up her bag, and lets her hand run across the table as she walks away. She gives the room one more look. The sun is still shining in, lending her a bit of clarity. As her story comes to an end, another will begin. The chairs and tables will soon be occupied by the youthful laughter of others, and their stories will eventually take the same winding road hers have. Another chip will be added to the table, another nick in the floor. Sticky puddles from spilled drinks will occur once again. New relationships will be forged amongst the homework and childish dances. The trees will have an audience once again, and someone will notice that the leaves turn much too fast. She allows a small smile to turn the corner of her mouth up as she walks away.

Countdown

Today was another death, another X through a box on the calendar. When the countdown first started, it was full of days and the end was far away. Now the end is in sight, the end that is to be her begining. But, begining of what? She has already begun, life has already complicated around her. Connections have been made. Battles fought and won. This future, it is not a begining. Nor is it an end. It is simply a continuation of what was started 18 years ago. The road is not ending, nor begining, but simply leading to a gentle curve along its set course.
Besides, what she has now could not have endured forever. She could have locked herself in the closet for a year, and still life would have moved forward, bringing with it change. Faces will change and fade in her memory as new ones take their place.
However, some things will remain. She hopes. Some faces will change only with age, not replacment or memory loss.
So she sighs, draws the X, and waits.

Rain agains the windows. Jokes that grow stale. Fights that are had under the guise of good humor. Thunder booms in the distance. Stinging wet bashes against the glass, all surfaces soaked. She wants to go outside, to stand in the full force of the storm. Amongst the danger of the elements lies a freedom she can only write about. A tornado warning remains for another 15 minutes, another round of playful jabs that sting to the bone. Laughter always about her, the end of all jokes. Returned humor results in scornful looks, and more laughter. Tears evoke giggles and fits of rage hysterics. But the rain, it takes her seriously. The storm knows her, better than those who call her family do. The wind knows her secerts, her well contained story, bursting to be told. Page after page, words she can't say and dialouge that will never occur.
The storm dies down, and the window of oppertunity fades away. With the all clear proclaimed through blaring speakers her escape has indeed escaped her.

Reflection Under Street Lights

The light outside is fading. Just a sliver of warmth remains, crushed by the chill of shadows. She doesn't mind. Leaves twist around her feet, gone as soon as they come. Her hair dances to a melody she can't hear. Her fingers are cold, shoved deep into her pockets. One pocket has a hole, she can feel it. She almost laughs at the irony. A hole in her pocket, a hole in her self. Something's changed and she doesn't know what it is. It left her this way, alive but not living. She can feel her feet take the steps, but she doesn't remember making a conscious effort to move them. She doesn't even remember leaving. Maybe tonight will be the night it changes, maybe in the morning she'll be able to feel again. Feel something other than that dull ache. She doesn't even know why she has the pain, just that it is always there. Has it always been there though? She knows it hasn't, but she can't see to remember what not having it felt like. Maybe it's the change, the dimly lit future ahead of her. Maybe it's him, again. Maybe it's the normal state things always seem to be in. Maybe it's all of these things, combined to create a cage around her. She's scared, but the panic never seems to make it to the surface. She is calm. Too calm. She catches herself doing it again, as she turns down the street. She's memorizing the way the trees look, the slope of the street, the smell. Yesterday she memorized his face, his smile. The day before, her room, her house. The way the walls felt as she ran her finger slowly along it. She's afraid that she will forget. Afraid that it will disappear before she even knows it's leaving. Afraid that one day it will be gone, part of a disorted dream some night.
And, yet, she's afraid that it will always be the same. That nothing will change, that the familier will hold her captive all these years to come. She wonders if she's crazy sometimes, if maybe something finally snapped. Somedays she feels like a hologram, ready to shimmer and fade away at any moment. Other days she feels solid, content even. Those days seem so short, so fleeting.
She reaches the door, knowing the smile will have to find a way to her face before she opens it. She'll have to pretend another night. Maybe, just maybe if she pretends enough nights in a row even she might start to believe it...

Turning of the Tides

Tears form but refuse to fall. They reject the path set before them, refusing to betray her. A hole, raw around the edges. Empty now, throbbing. She feels like she's slipping down below, an iron hand clamped over her mouth. No air. She begs for it to come back, like some lost lover. Come back. Don't leave her, she's afraid she'll survive. Afraid she'll live on with this apathy, this dull ache. Dreams pill up before her feet, like rocks on the coast that is so far away. They mock her. Hope eludes her, whispering only on those nights when she can't sleep. Only at night when the tears are no longer afraid, free to course down the curves of her face. Weak, broken. Oddly intact. It's worse that being destroyed, this living. How to fix it? How to get it back, that which continues to hide from her. No doubt it's moved on to someone else, some other soul ignorant of the void it will leave behind with it's inevitable departure. Fools. It never stays, always leaves. Leaves just when you need it most. Just when you feel safe. Safe. A stupid word.
The night is dark, light by some idle street lamp. Warm light on a cold night. She feels it again, that sharp stab of knowing. Knowing that she will be forced to move on. Forced to forget. Doomed by her mortality. The weakness of her memory. It will fade, the cause of what used to be. But she won't ever get it back. No, they're both gone, lingering just beyond her grasp. Does she want it back, if it must come at the cost of forgetting?
Words fill her ears, swimming around her softly. Music that tells her story, but the ending is wrong. All wrong. Not this. Not with so much time left. It was never to be this way. But who is she to say? The end, the path of her story...they are reveled only after the story has ended.
The light continues to shine, ever present. Always a light, on some distant shore. But not hers. Someone else's. Her light sputters, fights. She knows, but she doesn't want to.
She doesn't want to forget.

Underneath the Skin

A beautiful monster,
With feelings skin deep.
A villain, a liar, scarred on the surface.
Broken,
With nothing left but a pretty face.
Evil consumes wholly,
Good has no place here.
Inside, outside;
Masks on display.
Creator and destroyer;
A bullet to the missing heart.
There is no hero this time,
Just a winner in this twisted game.
Tie the knot in the noose,
Let the body swing.
Kill the ugliest of them all,
They're the one who's the most beautiful.
Darkness over comes with
A blink of an unrealistic eye.
Don't hesitate,
Finger light on the trigger.
A savior dressed in rags,
A pretend heroine saving the day.
Reality lies in perception,
Tell me what is yours ?

Lessons Learned

Day pass and still she can remember his features exactly. Green-blue eyes. Nervous hands. They shake sometimes, but he doesn't know she notices. He knows so much, yet so little.
He sits, slumped, in his chair. Sitting back, relaxed- yet on edge. Dressed as always. It's an image she wants to keep. She shuts her eyes and conjures his picture once more, commiting it to memory.
It hurts her to think about what the future must inveitably hold. Years will pass. Different paths will be taken. Soon, all ties will lost. All that will remain will be what manages to stay locked in her memory.
He will forget her. To him, she will become but a whisper, an unsettling dream some late and sleepless night. He will forget her name. Lose the letters she composed, and sent. Perhaps he never even read them.
Fate will be cruel to them. The future will be a double edged sword of change and loss. It saddens her to think of it.
For now, she must hold to the chances, the time that remains. She will wait for the moments when their eyes meet, holding each other captive for those few, fleeting seconds. She will cherish the smiles granted to her, the laughter she is sometimes allowed. Each moment, a reminder of what might have been.
A reminder that love, in fact, does not take two. A reminder that respect and friendship do, at times, heal the wounds of rejection, of ignorence. A rejection born not of hate or digust, but a rejection of honesty and perhaps fear. Fear that she might make him feel something. And fear that, perhaps, she already has.

She stares into his eyes, a thousand questions clouding her vision. Questions whose answers left long ago.
He looks away, and she suffocates a little more.
The air around her is heavy, oppressive. The fiber of her being surges with urgency- but never desperation.
A deep sadness clutches her heart, or is it merely her imagination. Her love of the dramatic, the morose. The feeling holds to her with a cold, angry fist. Rather than shattering her, it lingers in its gripping ache.
She stands alone, waiting. Waiting for all of her to be numb. For everything to fade away, like mist over a great glassy sea. She waits for rushing waves to carry her to some forgotten, distant shore. She is always waiting.
His mouth moves, words hang in the air around her. They drug her into a cruel stillness. Nothing to say, even less to feel. Or perhaps too much. Empty.
His hand reaches towards her, uncertain. Unsteady legs carry her backward. Time does not wait.