God, I'm so
- Bored ._. and no, I haven't started IT at all 8D
I guessed I just wanted to try on to write something readeable :3 which is quite hard for me , since
i) I feel like trying to catch my thoughts in time to type them is like trying to stop the ocean with a cardboard;
ii) and when I write the story I feel as if all the suspense and magic and ultimate stuff that makes stories so special is sort of sapped, since I know what's gonna happen next (^^_')
Anyway, here goes nothing:
***
Little Leaves
The day was austere and cold and she jammed her graceless hands in her pockets. The jacket was even heavier than her and yet she felt that she had just wrapped herself in tight plastic foil, for all the good it did.
The sun's outline seemed hazy and watery and misshapen as vapour and condensation and misty clouds drifted over it. The tar was covered by a fine patina of ice and the houses all looked like they were completely inhabited. Some rectangles of orange light spilled onto the streets like honey over a parched throat, but everything seemed so iridescent and white that nobody seemed to care anyway, and greeted the new Sunday morning with the typical indifference that appropriates winter in the UK. Days seem to blend and melt and entwine with each other until months have passed and you are only mildly surprised.
With a feeling of complete disregard for the frost hungrily clawing her fingers and throat raw, she headed for the little park of her neighbourhood. The transition from frosty roads to wet grass was relieving, and for a moment, she looked down at the glistening blades and pondered about stepping out of her uncomfortable shoes and placing her feet on the grass; she had always found grass more relaxing than sand, which only left her with that infuriating feeling of swelling and not bursting.
A voice reverberated in her ears like a broken record from better days, which we like to hear only because it reminds us of our past; not because the song means anything anymore. With no further ado she shoved her feet into the cramped shoes more ferociously as a self punishment for the idyllic, idiosyncrasy, idiotic person she was: just like They all said.
The park was a quant little playground with plywood and mats and a well designed array of strange looking mounts that had little rockets and stars and other space- related prints over it. She looked at the leftover of autumn leaves, all damp and dead and diseased, and a particular lyric came to mind. Well, she thought, it doesn't always have to be like that, does it? Cheered, she kicked up the clump of leaves enthusiastically, reviving in a flash childhood dreams of making huge piles of crisp golden and copper and saffron and russet leaves heave as she threw herself ecstatically on them; mayhap bouncing and watching the sunlight glint on the pretty metallic leaves.
But when she kicked, the leaves remained clumped; they didn't lift and swirl into golden shafts but just remained inert in the muddy ground. Her feet were uncomfortably stuck and sunk on the disgustingly soft pile of tree membranes.
The leaves made squishy sounds like organs being stepped upon, and the swings creaked. Her heart pounding for escape on her ribcage and fear singing shrilly on her hopping stomach, she sped up her pace and ignored the creaking of the swing and the beautifully despondent boy swinging, his mascara making winding, lonely tracks on the barren, smooth topography that was his arctic face. She ignored the way colours splashed his paper-like pallor in a pattern deigned for a kaleidoscope: to her, he resembled a doll crafted from the recycled canvas of a Masterpiece. She threw a last glance at him, but he was turned the other way, so that only his profile was clear.
A shaft of early morning sunlight pierced his face and threw all the smoothness and bumps and crossroads and years of suffering into the pale stretch of his neck, where she saw , sickened, the mocking shape of a cigarette burn resembling a heart; bright saffron-crimson smeared by the remnants of copper lanes and a fading love bite.
She clutched the letter at her hand and ignored the frozen, invisible tracks in the desert that was her face.
She hadn't really believed she could ever show him the way to go.
Sometimes when you walk and feel idle, look at your feet, and you'll probably find a note that a desolate and idle girl much like anyone else wrote for a boy who had been shattered and smashed together until his pieces where broken and wrong and who wasn't like anybody else:
''Your face makes my heart brake and mend itself all over again, because is the combination of beautiful with anguish that strikes me when I see you everyday. I think and breathe and love you, because I don't know you and yet you continue knowing not that I see you and the beauty that lies under your colours of blue and grey and green and yellow and purple and red and , black.
Please let me be a soft spot of sunlight seashell; I don't want us both to become something like what we are now''
***
Man, this sounds ... strange O__O I was pretty much inspired by Taylor Swift's '' Tied together with a smile '' ; but whyyy is it soo... ? >.<