(no subject)
A blank sleight. Again.
The more he waited the less it mattered. If he really wanted to be passionate about what he was writing, he didn't have much time. He had stories upon stories cascading around inside him like a wave. The ideas and movements flowing about him like the feeling that everything is connected has a hold over his conscious self, and his labito has taken control.
Stirring. A simple idea.
He hears a faint whimper that is the spark created by his thoughts. It's a familiar tune, and he knows the outcome. It was his nothing. His nothing- when he got here, no thoughts would make it to paper. Nothing has consumed his mind, and taken over. It was nothing.
Or was it everything.
And now, I enter the room. He places his hand on my hip and asks me how my day went. Typical. I decided to change the tides a bit by giving him a soft kiss on the lips. I was a woman of stature, that was for sure. I could see his notebook out on the desk. Ah, his nothing... Figures. He is all we've got, so nothing just won't do.
And then, a wave crashes down on his body. He is wrecked with an ocean of whims and hooks. He feels a flood of emotion, and happiness takes the down stage spot. He runs to the desk, and draws a simple picture. It was a, what would be, empty field if it were not for the lone weeping willow he had drawn in the middle. While this didn't mean a thing to me, it meant everything to him. That night, we celebrated. An idea. A thought. Finally, something to work with. We go to bed so he can get a full days work tomorrow. This was it. The happiness I had dreamed for.
And in the moment, we were everything.
The more he waited the less it mattered. If he really wanted to be passionate about what he was writing, he didn't have much time. He had stories upon stories cascading around inside him like a wave. The ideas and movements flowing about him like the feeling that everything is connected has a hold over his conscious self, and his labito has taken control.
Stirring. A simple idea.
He hears a faint whimper that is the spark created by his thoughts. It's a familiar tune, and he knows the outcome. It was his nothing. His nothing- when he got here, no thoughts would make it to paper. Nothing has consumed his mind, and taken over. It was nothing.
Or was it everything.
And now, I enter the room. He places his hand on my hip and asks me how my day went. Typical. I decided to change the tides a bit by giving him a soft kiss on the lips. I was a woman of stature, that was for sure. I could see his notebook out on the desk. Ah, his nothing... Figures. He is all we've got, so nothing just won't do.
And then, a wave crashes down on his body. He is wrecked with an ocean of whims and hooks. He feels a flood of emotion, and happiness takes the down stage spot. He runs to the desk, and draws a simple picture. It was a, what would be, empty field if it were not for the lone weeping willow he had drawn in the middle. While this didn't mean a thing to me, it meant everything to him. That night, we celebrated. An idea. A thought. Finally, something to work with. We go to bed so he can get a full days work tomorrow. This was it. The happiness I had dreamed for.
And in the moment, we were everything.