original; untitled
Fandom: original
Title: (untitled)
Rating: G
Notes: An old little piece that I wrote with some kind of profound inspiration after walking home from a friend's house at night.... as such it's quasi-philosophical babble that makes no sense.
The air is cold and dark and intoxicating and it fills my head with heavy scent. It is an endless well of potential, a pristine lump of clay waiting to be molded. I realize I am walking without moving and look to the side to verify that the bushes behind me are in fact moving away. I realize I can control the speed of my motion; I can move away from my path and to the side of the road where the air is stained with the smell of grass; I can pick a single leaf out on a bush and examine it as closely as I please. These opportunities will never present themselves again.
This night can be manipulated into anything. I can scale the house next to me and fling myself from the roof, evoking an atmosphere of hazy terror and tainting the heavy darkness with flashing lights and tears and shouting. And yet I can jump endlessly up and down, yearning to touch the single dry leaf clinging to the branch of a tree far above my head, and I will fail and it will mean nothing.
A short, painfully blonde woman comes out onto the steps of a house across the road. The pupils of my eyes shrink; it is like a desecration, and suddenly the air smells of oranges and stale Chinese food and is filled with the memory of another.
Title: (untitled)
Rating: G
Notes: An old little piece that I wrote with some kind of profound inspiration after walking home from a friend's house at night.... as such it's quasi-philosophical babble that makes no sense.
The air is cold and dark and intoxicating and it fills my head with heavy scent. It is an endless well of potential, a pristine lump of clay waiting to be molded. I realize I am walking without moving and look to the side to verify that the bushes behind me are in fact moving away. I realize I can control the speed of my motion; I can move away from my path and to the side of the road where the air is stained with the smell of grass; I can pick a single leaf out on a bush and examine it as closely as I please. These opportunities will never present themselves again.
This night can be manipulated into anything. I can scale the house next to me and fling myself from the roof, evoking an atmosphere of hazy terror and tainting the heavy darkness with flashing lights and tears and shouting. And yet I can jump endlessly up and down, yearning to touch the single dry leaf clinging to the branch of a tree far above my head, and I will fail and it will mean nothing.
A short, painfully blonde woman comes out onto the steps of a house across the road. The pupils of my eyes shrink; it is like a desecration, and suddenly the air smells of oranges and stale Chinese food and is filled with the memory of another.