(no subject)
She made her life inside a shoebox. It was a modest existence, but it suited her. She filled her day with learning the letters that described the shoes who had once inhabited her home. They had been a women’s pump, size 11, black patent leather, wide. She was visited every once in a while by the aroma’s that drifted around and through her shoebox, whispering stories to her nostrils and filling her heart with exotic fancies. She couldn’t say why she’d never left her shoebox, it simply had never occurred to her. The shoebox was her existence, it was her life, and who was she to question it’s validity?
His life was his guitar. His life was, literally, bound to the fate of his 6 string acoustic Ibanez. He felt every vibration of the strings resonate through his body. When the guitar expressed beautiful music, it soaked its way into his core and permeated his soul in beauty. When his guitar lay in the corner, slowly coating in dust, his existence was no more than that of a ghost, barely existing. There was no life in him then, no purpose, he simply was. An empty shell of potential, wasting away, hiding from the light of day. But oh, when he picked up that guitar, there was music, and there was magic. There was life.
Now, I cannot say how a shoebox and a guitar came to be lovers, all I know, is that one day, they did. And with their love affair, they brought together the two who were slaves to their existence. She showed him her letters, he played her his music, and slowly, yes… it was a long, slooooow slide, her shoebox came to be his life, and his guitar became home.
His life was his guitar. His life was, literally, bound to the fate of his 6 string acoustic Ibanez. He felt every vibration of the strings resonate through his body. When the guitar expressed beautiful music, it soaked its way into his core and permeated his soul in beauty. When his guitar lay in the corner, slowly coating in dust, his existence was no more than that of a ghost, barely existing. There was no life in him then, no purpose, he simply was. An empty shell of potential, wasting away, hiding from the light of day. But oh, when he picked up that guitar, there was music, and there was magic. There was life.
Now, I cannot say how a shoebox and a guitar came to be lovers, all I know, is that one day, they did. And with their love affair, they brought together the two who were slaves to their existence. She showed him her letters, he played her his music, and slowly, yes… it was a long, slooooow slide, her shoebox came to be his life, and his guitar became home.