It hasn't been the right kind of night for some time. The night when the cold doesn't freeze you and metaphorical icicles don't drop from your fingernails in a futile attempt to join their brethren on the floor. Where the sun still shines even though it's been down for hours and a pounding heart doesn't make your ears bleed in time to the music of silver bells. Those nights were the wind whispers things that you want to hear instead of taunts and jeers than never really meant more than the pat on the back you were expecting last Sunday
( ... )
When Anna saw the four white walls that surrounded her, she knew she was in hell. In a typical person's understanding, hell was a place of complete ruin, with flames leaping wildly like waves that could swallow the biggest city whole. But for Anna, hell was a white room drenched with the smell of chlorine and alcohol, with cold floor tiles and bright fluorescent lights that could produce enough glare to render a person blind
( ... )
i am not a writer but please tell LJ i am human
anonymous
December 3 2007, 06:53:23 UTC
On Saturday mornings, she would take the bus and spend three hours looking at the window, staring at the scenery that she passed by. Two years yet the landscape never seemed to change. She would always be greeted by a series of large Acacia trees, bowing down with the weight of the centuries. On summer, its yellow blossoms would dance with the sweeping breeze, only to find themselves lost in its embrace -carried into the green wilderness of the rice fields away from the realms of their forsaken ancestors. There are times she wondered if they are the ones passing her by, and if she was the one being left behind by the elusiveness of time
( ... )
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