(no subject)
There's a sheen of unhappiness draped over Peter like a shroud too heavy to be borne by one person alone.
At first, the rage had been preferable, that ugly and deep and constant bitter burn that fueled him onwards, that stole melodies from his mind and filled it with a blank span of nothing, an endless landscape of pain and anger. This is far worse. This is too many depressing fugues and minor keys playing a constant melody that doesn't even stop for sleep.
--muted, soft melodies that haunt his dreams, that persist and give the soundtrack to a dark and dim world--
Peter's been crying.
Oh, he's not the sort to admit it, but he's not that kind of man that needs to buck up and put on a brave face. He'll wear his tears like a badge of some sort of sick pride, the way he stands there in the moonlight, the way the sounds of the night provide a steady tune for him to exist to.
He's tried to talk to God, bargaining with his breaths, his talents, his music for an explanation, but nothing's come. Nothing. That's simply it. He's filled with an all-encompassing nothingness that eats him up from within and the tears on his pale cheeks shine in the night against a blazing moon.
There's a soft concerto in his head at that very moment.
Perhaps when his voice comes back to him, he might hum a verse or two.
At first, the rage had been preferable, that ugly and deep and constant bitter burn that fueled him onwards, that stole melodies from his mind and filled it with a blank span of nothing, an endless landscape of pain and anger. This is far worse. This is too many depressing fugues and minor keys playing a constant melody that doesn't even stop for sleep.
--muted, soft melodies that haunt his dreams, that persist and give the soundtrack to a dark and dim world--
Peter's been crying.
Oh, he's not the sort to admit it, but he's not that kind of man that needs to buck up and put on a brave face. He'll wear his tears like a badge of some sort of sick pride, the way he stands there in the moonlight, the way the sounds of the night provide a steady tune for him to exist to.
He's tried to talk to God, bargaining with his breaths, his talents, his music for an explanation, but nothing's come. Nothing. That's simply it. He's filled with an all-encompassing nothingness that eats him up from within and the tears on his pale cheeks shine in the night against a blazing moon.
There's a soft concerto in his head at that very moment.
Perhaps when his voice comes back to him, he might hum a verse or two.