A story
A story I just wrote:
There was a boy who would sit beside the window and stare out at drops hitting the glass, streaking, floating before him, so slowly, silently, silhouettes of it on his face. He sat there thinking: that there was more than those traces of water gliding away, that sheets and sheets were being transparently hung from the sky, that all before him was glass, still, and moving so quickly in the darkening air. He looked at the surface of the window, seeing his own face, and how the tears seemed to be rain and the rain, tears. The glass was inside him, he could feel it jaggedly crushing its way out from his ribs, but silently, carefully, slowly. Those raindrops came crashing through, and all the world soaking it up like a black-bound book's dry pages. A light behind him would flicker, and the shadows would deepen (though only behind him; his eyes saw only the night's covering, its funereal sheet laid over the sky). His hand rested on the pane, ridged fingerprints remaining on what once was fluid, blurred edges shifting unnoticeably in the penumbra, radiating outwards like ripples, waves, from the contact. He looked down, and the warmth of life dimmed. Fingers cold, they rested on the window, aimless, a rough sea and a boat. Stranded (but in his mind, he saw the bottom, the calm floor, the smoothness of light filtered through sheets of blue hung from posts anchored beyond sight, and the blood-red coral, creeping). The raindrops fell, and as his eyes closed, he thought: that there could be another, inside, growing, throwing off this skin, inhaling... glowing.
There was a boy who would sit beside the window and stare out at drops hitting the glass, streaking, floating before him, so slowly, silently, silhouettes of it on his face. He sat there thinking: that there was more than those traces of water gliding away, that sheets and sheets were being transparently hung from the sky, that all before him was glass, still, and moving so quickly in the darkening air. He looked at the surface of the window, seeing his own face, and how the tears seemed to be rain and the rain, tears. The glass was inside him, he could feel it jaggedly crushing its way out from his ribs, but silently, carefully, slowly. Those raindrops came crashing through, and all the world soaking it up like a black-bound book's dry pages. A light behind him would flicker, and the shadows would deepen (though only behind him; his eyes saw only the night's covering, its funereal sheet laid over the sky). His hand rested on the pane, ridged fingerprints remaining on what once was fluid, blurred edges shifting unnoticeably in the penumbra, radiating outwards like ripples, waves, from the contact. He looked down, and the warmth of life dimmed. Fingers cold, they rested on the window, aimless, a rough sea and a boat. Stranded (but in his mind, he saw the bottom, the calm floor, the smoothness of light filtered through sheets of blue hung from posts anchored beyond sight, and the blood-red coral, creeping). The raindrops fell, and as his eyes closed, he thought: that there could be another, inside, growing, throwing off this skin, inhaling... glowing.