Ten
-----
He felt it all around him, all the time; this pain of loss. It was everywhere, stalking him at night until at last banned into terrible dreams of darkness that snickered and evil hands and teeth that reached for him from the darkness, ready to pull him into their terrible, inverted realm of cruelty and pain, where darkness was light and to suffer was joy, only to awaken to his terrible world. A carefully controlled sphere of pain, almost beautiful in its misery. It was too much for him, this life of darkness and pain and loss with only a few gaps for a little light to enter. He pretended it wasn't so; that he couldn't feel this horror, this suffering. But it was all around him, for so long that it was almost a tangable thing, pulling below his glass surface. It wouldn't be long before it broke, and he felt the darkness absolutely. This perfect, beautiful misery. He could see, now, crimson. Perfect. Too perfect.
It hadn't always been so. There had been a time when all was light and joy, and even long, lonely nights held the promise of a sunny warm morning. He knew what it was to express his feelings, to see others' minds and hearts and the light shining through them, illuminating their souls, as if they were stained glass, and reading them just as easily; it was wonderful. But it could never be so again. The glass was shattered beyond repair.
This voice calls from somewhere above him, the beautiful voice, full of laughter and tears and hidden stars and galaxies. Entire worlds were in that voice, he thought. Entire civiliazions raised and fell with a single word. Love and hate and fear and death and joy in one sentence, from one to the next, stringing them along like pearls or roses. White pearls. Black roses.
It was the first time he had really known love. He thought he had known love, maybe, for the girl with the sandy hair and blue, blue eyes, and kind. So kind, he thought, it must be love. But could love be so lonely? So empty? There would be, he thought, something more than touch. Something, that wasn't there. Empty. An unclenched fist. Rose petals to the wind. He turned his face from the girl, closed his heart to her. Closed his heart to all.
Then, somewhere, the voice had called out to him. It was the voice, the voice that made him open his eyes and his heart for the first time. He knew this was love. He just knew, the first time he heard the voice, like fire and ice and water and tears. It danced deeply in the eyes, so deep and clear. He saw the true beauty of people, their souls. He knew joy and love. He could at last open up to life and feel. It was so new. So, so new.
With joy comes pain, and with laugher comes tears. You cannot have one without its twin. They come inseperable, from the birth of conciousness. Yet he could not find it to dislike them. To feel happiness was to feel sorrow, and to feel both was so beautiful. So much. He opened his heart and let all flood in. Seeing the crystal statue with the light shining through it, even as it lay shattered, it was still, somehow, beautiful.
Everything was beautiful somehow. Even death had a kind of beauty in its finality. So still. Quiet. Unchanging. He watched the voice and the eyes and the beautiful, beautiful hair, pure emotion wound into a long, shining braid. Watched them, all together, so perfect. Always motion. Not stained. Not at all. Pure, clear glass, shining open and free for all to see and admire, and to allow light through untainted, illuminating everything in its wake.
He watched as this creation of beauty and emotion and pure, shining light fell. Fell from its high shelf, the light catching once more in a final moment of grace and glory before shattering, never to be repaired. The last light winked through the broken pieces and they then became forever dull. People, he thought, were not like glass. They could never be repaired once they were broken. And his last window was broken; never to be repaired.
The whitest pearls become dull. Black roses become wilted.
Fade to black.
-----
He felt it all around him, all the time; this pain of loss. It was everywhere, stalking him at night until at last banned into terrible dreams of darkness that snickered and evil hands and teeth that reached for him from the darkness, ready to pull him into their terrible, inverted realm of cruelty and pain, where darkness was light and to suffer was joy, only to awaken to his terrible world. A carefully controlled sphere of pain, almost beautiful in its misery. It was too much for him, this life of darkness and pain and loss with only a few gaps for a little light to enter. He pretended it wasn't so; that he couldn't feel this horror, this suffering. But it was all around him, for so long that it was almost a tangable thing, pulling below his glass surface. It wouldn't be long before it broke, and he felt the darkness absolutely. This perfect, beautiful misery. He could see, now, crimson. Perfect. Too perfect.
It hadn't always been so. There had been a time when all was light and joy, and even long, lonely nights held the promise of a sunny warm morning. He knew what it was to express his feelings, to see others' minds and hearts and the light shining through them, illuminating their souls, as if they were stained glass, and reading them just as easily; it was wonderful. But it could never be so again. The glass was shattered beyond repair.
This voice calls from somewhere above him, the beautiful voice, full of laughter and tears and hidden stars and galaxies. Entire worlds were in that voice, he thought. Entire civiliazions raised and fell with a single word. Love and hate and fear and death and joy in one sentence, from one to the next, stringing them along like pearls or roses. White pearls. Black roses.
It was the first time he had really known love. He thought he had known love, maybe, for the girl with the sandy hair and blue, blue eyes, and kind. So kind, he thought, it must be love. But could love be so lonely? So empty? There would be, he thought, something more than touch. Something, that wasn't there. Empty. An unclenched fist. Rose petals to the wind. He turned his face from the girl, closed his heart to her. Closed his heart to all.
Then, somewhere, the voice had called out to him. It was the voice, the voice that made him open his eyes and his heart for the first time. He knew this was love. He just knew, the first time he heard the voice, like fire and ice and water and tears. It danced deeply in the eyes, so deep and clear. He saw the true beauty of people, their souls. He knew joy and love. He could at last open up to life and feel. It was so new. So, so new.
With joy comes pain, and with laugher comes tears. You cannot have one without its twin. They come inseperable, from the birth of conciousness. Yet he could not find it to dislike them. To feel happiness was to feel sorrow, and to feel both was so beautiful. So much. He opened his heart and let all flood in. Seeing the crystal statue with the light shining through it, even as it lay shattered, it was still, somehow, beautiful.
Everything was beautiful somehow. Even death had a kind of beauty in its finality. So still. Quiet. Unchanging. He watched the voice and the eyes and the beautiful, beautiful hair, pure emotion wound into a long, shining braid. Watched them, all together, so perfect. Always motion. Not stained. Not at all. Pure, clear glass, shining open and free for all to see and admire, and to allow light through untainted, illuminating everything in its wake.
He watched as this creation of beauty and emotion and pure, shining light fell. Fell from its high shelf, the light catching once more in a final moment of grace and glory before shattering, never to be repaired. The last light winked through the broken pieces and they then became forever dull. People, he thought, were not like glass. They could never be repaired once they were broken. And his last window was broken; never to be repaired.
The whitest pearls become dull. Black roses become wilted.
Fade to black.