Editting Older Again.
I had seen her before. And could not forget her. A lovely figure in that stoic and stony edifice. It was a place full of bowed heads and whispers. A place of muted shuffling and silent colors. I spotted her from my favorite perch in that hallowed place.
In the corner of my vision, I caught a flash of color as vibrant as those that lived beyond my window. Surprise turned my head and the motion disappeared behind the far bookcase. I stared intently at the bookcases as if willing myself to see through dusty pages and aged wood.
A thought teased in my mind as I gazed at those dulled book covers; it was a flicker of my imagination. But I sensed a tiny shift of movement in that still room. Perhaps the occasional monk? Then I heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the thick rugs below.
My eyes were boring through a dark green cover, and I wondered the reason for my lack of dismissal. Perhaps sheer boredom broke me down into desperation. I have spent so long in this unchanging place that dust blankets me thickly and lulls me into perpetual sleep. It has long since I have stirred for any visitor; my memory of the previous has faded into a half-dream.
At the sudden skipping of my heart and the feel of blood moving through my body, I was awake and wishing not to be disappointed at what that dark green cover hid behind it. Then, at the other end of the bookcase, I saw that shock of color that had caught my eye. It was a cascade of crimson. Like a starved man, my entire being stunned by that savory sight of color. For a moment, all I could see was that beautiful crimson that was richer than blood. When the colors moved, I was shocked out of my reverie and properly saw her.
She was a young maiden then, hardly out of adolescence. She walked softly on the hard floors, not because of any natural gracefulness but out of respect for the silence of the great stone walls around us. As her shoes clicked as softly as she could make them, her long dress rustled a gentle hush and whisper. Her eyes were distant, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. He hand gently trailed behind her on the rich mahogany desk and the books stacked on it, lingering whenever it touched the soft leather of the covers. I watched as her hand dropped like a weight at the end of the table.
She stood with her back to the window. Her fingers caught the edge of the heavy curtains as she was running her fingers up and down its length. She ran her hand up and leaned slightly and brought the cloth to her cheek, her eyes half closed. And she stood there slowly rubbing her check to feel the soft velvety fabric. A smile teased at her lips and she sighed deeply. There was such a look of longing in that ghost of a smile. So sweet and gentle, a fiery dance of passion and yearning in her eyes. her other hand clenched at her waist as her eyes fully closed and she sighed again.
I was mesmerized, thoughts filled of questions concerning her; what thoughts this lovely girl had. Perhaps she dreamt of the soft comforts of a rich chamber room. Or perhaps, dreams of love. I wanted to know, but how does one such as I approach such a lady?
Then the bells suddenly tolled from a distance away. It was a familiar sound I once welcomed for the clear chimes broke the tedium of the day with a glimmer of music. She dropped the curtain suddenly, suddenly realizing the reality in which she lived in. She glanced about nervously, embarrassed that she lost herself in those dreams.
She sighed, then turned back to the window and gazed out. Her eyes were filled with longing once more as she watched the sky change its colors to the garb of night. Though they were much sadder than when she was dreaming earlier. What words did I have to comfort her? None really.
She drew herself up, her expression as stoic as the dull monks of this place. Then, in a sudden whirl of crimson and soft fabric, she disappeared between the bookcases and was no more. I sighed, eyes probably as full as longing as hers. I waited. And because there was nothing else I could do, I prayed for her return.
In the corner of my vision, I caught a flash of color as vibrant as those that lived beyond my window. Surprise turned my head and the motion disappeared behind the far bookcase. I stared intently at the bookcases as if willing myself to see through dusty pages and aged wood.
A thought teased in my mind as I gazed at those dulled book covers; it was a flicker of my imagination. But I sensed a tiny shift of movement in that still room. Perhaps the occasional monk? Then I heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the thick rugs below.
My eyes were boring through a dark green cover, and I wondered the reason for my lack of dismissal. Perhaps sheer boredom broke me down into desperation. I have spent so long in this unchanging place that dust blankets me thickly and lulls me into perpetual sleep. It has long since I have stirred for any visitor; my memory of the previous has faded into a half-dream.
At the sudden skipping of my heart and the feel of blood moving through my body, I was awake and wishing not to be disappointed at what that dark green cover hid behind it. Then, at the other end of the bookcase, I saw that shock of color that had caught my eye. It was a cascade of crimson. Like a starved man, my entire being stunned by that savory sight of color. For a moment, all I could see was that beautiful crimson that was richer than blood. When the colors moved, I was shocked out of my reverie and properly saw her.
She was a young maiden then, hardly out of adolescence. She walked softly on the hard floors, not because of any natural gracefulness but out of respect for the silence of the great stone walls around us. As her shoes clicked as softly as she could make them, her long dress rustled a gentle hush and whisper. Her eyes were distant, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. He hand gently trailed behind her on the rich mahogany desk and the books stacked on it, lingering whenever it touched the soft leather of the covers. I watched as her hand dropped like a weight at the end of the table.
She stood with her back to the window. Her fingers caught the edge of the heavy curtains as she was running her fingers up and down its length. She ran her hand up and leaned slightly and brought the cloth to her cheek, her eyes half closed. And she stood there slowly rubbing her check to feel the soft velvety fabric. A smile teased at her lips and she sighed deeply. There was such a look of longing in that ghost of a smile. So sweet and gentle, a fiery dance of passion and yearning in her eyes. her other hand clenched at her waist as her eyes fully closed and she sighed again.
I was mesmerized, thoughts filled of questions concerning her; what thoughts this lovely girl had. Perhaps she dreamt of the soft comforts of a rich chamber room. Or perhaps, dreams of love. I wanted to know, but how does one such as I approach such a lady?
Then the bells suddenly tolled from a distance away. It was a familiar sound I once welcomed for the clear chimes broke the tedium of the day with a glimmer of music. She dropped the curtain suddenly, suddenly realizing the reality in which she lived in. She glanced about nervously, embarrassed that she lost herself in those dreams.
She sighed, then turned back to the window and gazed out. Her eyes were filled with longing once more as she watched the sky change its colors to the garb of night. Though they were much sadder than when she was dreaming earlier. What words did I have to comfort her? None really.
She drew herself up, her expression as stoic as the dull monks of this place. Then, in a sudden whirl of crimson and soft fabric, she disappeared between the bookcases and was no more. I sighed, eyes probably as full as longing as hers. I waited. And because there was nothing else I could do, I prayed for her return.