Don't you think the Joker laughs at you?
The night had been cold and the windows left open. Frodo was stiff in his chair, as he'd been for the whole night. The fire from the main hall had made his gaunt cheeks seem warm and flushed in their light but in truth they were shallow and pale. His eyes seemed empty when they were open, still staring glassily at the far wall but it was almost as if a veil now had fallen over them. In truth they were only accented in their vacantness by the dark circles formed beneath them, helping to sink his skin into his face. He has hardly eaten anything in the past five days and only had just a little more than that to drink.
He seems to feel no pain for it, nor any discomfort, but it's clear in the light of the day that things aren't all going as nicely on the Outside as they are on the Inside. He's slowly starving himself and withering away and it seems no matter of contact will break him from it. Does he seem content to die? Perhaps. Perhaps not. After all, what is death in this world? Its hardly permanent and not even painful in most cases. And yet, death is what brought him to this place, as he snapped over the death of his brother and the many events surrounding it.
So what should be done now?
Inside he dreams of a golden honey day not too long ago when the air was filled with happy michevious laughter and well wishes and waterballoons filled with eggs. It seemed the sky stretched on forever to capture the world in a dewy kiss and the grass was tart and sweet and even the dirt shone like gold. It was a moment to catch and hold like a pretty little bauble caught from the river with a silkworm webbed net. Caught, caught, and as long as he can hold on to it, he doesn't have to remember how he let it all go Outside.
He can't even pick the pieces up, as they seem to have been shattered to dust.
But here, Inside, he can go back to that time when he was happy and the piece still fit together nicely. Back to before things were torn apart and took his heart with them.
Inside he's so happy he doesn't realize that on the Outside he's dying.
He seems to feel no pain for it, nor any discomfort, but it's clear in the light of the day that things aren't all going as nicely on the Outside as they are on the Inside. He's slowly starving himself and withering away and it seems no matter of contact will break him from it. Does he seem content to die? Perhaps. Perhaps not. After all, what is death in this world? Its hardly permanent and not even painful in most cases. And yet, death is what brought him to this place, as he snapped over the death of his brother and the many events surrounding it.
So what should be done now?
Inside he dreams of a golden honey day not too long ago when the air was filled with happy michevious laughter and well wishes and waterballoons filled with eggs. It seemed the sky stretched on forever to capture the world in a dewy kiss and the grass was tart and sweet and even the dirt shone like gold. It was a moment to catch and hold like a pretty little bauble caught from the river with a silkworm webbed net. Caught, caught, and as long as he can hold on to it, he doesn't have to remember how he let it all go Outside.
He can't even pick the pieces up, as they seem to have been shattered to dust.
But here, Inside, he can go back to that time when he was happy and the piece still fit together nicely. Back to before things were torn apart and took his heart with them.
Inside he's so happy he doesn't realize that on the Outside he's dying.