Author's Notes: No clue where this is coming from. I recieved a push from Kat to work on it, and well it escaladed from one short paragraph to all these random ramblings. If you guys like it, I'll continue it, if not I'm going to finish it off for myself but not post it. I don't know. I hope you like it. If you want to talk to me or drop me a line my email is ellaspyrka@yahoo.com and my AIM screenname is Love Among Ruin. And of course I have to say thanks to Kat, cause without her, I think I would have slowly slipped away in my writing abilities.
~*~
She gazed out the window at the empty street. A streetlight blinked on and off, deciding whether to shine or burn out. It had eventually lost the battle and the street was dark, except for the full moon that cast an eerie glow upon the window and trees. She was cold, way too cold for time of the year. She pulled her sleeves so they covered her fingers, stretching out the material. She could almost hear her mother yelling at her to stop doing that. That she weakened the threads. She didn't care at that particular moment. She wrapped her arms around herself, searching for some form of radiant warmth. She hadn't been able to sleep lately. So much had happened in the last few days, and she hadn't had time to fully think about it until tonight. Walking towards the couch, she put her foot underneath her, and pulled her other foot up towards her chest, forming a ball. It was a usual position for her, and she felt comfortable. It was like a shield, something that would protect her if the worst of the world came running towards her. She ran her hands through her hair, her roots beginning to show, and the many colors of the dye and highlights beginning to fade. As soon as she pulled her hand out, a few strands of hair came along, intertwined with her fingers. She shook off the loose strands and resumed her position with her hands around her legs.
She had never meant for things to come to this point, to end like this. Every single day that he had been gone, all she thought of was him. Whether he was okay, happy, safe. But he came back looking worse than ever. Those eyes that had once held so much spark were dull and empty. He had seen the worst of humanity and only came out weaker, more fragile. Like it was his fault the world was so cold and empty, full of hatred and deceit. He probably blamed himself as well. That was just the type of person he was. She could almost see him, his dark chocolate brown eyes, his dark auburn hair, his tall, slender body, slaving away just to make a difference in a single life. Yet he hadn't realized the one most in need was at home. She had needed him. Dependency was an evil thing. She couldn't go on. They had everything they had every needed: each other. And lost it. Somehow. The lightning rattled her out of her contemplations, the blast of silver casting the deathly faint city a ray of promise. But it was of no comfort to her. One of the world's beauties and miracles, was also one of the most destructive forces ever. It could set fire to a little patch of land, which grows, no control. No way to tell it where to go, or how to behave. It can never be used to advantage, tallying up the losses, second after second. Something so simple, so natural, intended to do harm. Everything is intended to hurt, to cause suffering at one point or another. It may not be for everyone, but no one has lived without being hurt by something imperceptible. The sun, a perfect choice. It nourishes the world, it provides energy for plants to grow, making the food chain run its course. But it can also kill. Too much sun, dries out land, prevents it from feeding the millions of starving people in those countries. Africa.
The thought skimmed her mind. Never had she thought of the country before. It was just a few colors on a map, an exotic place far away, that she would never visit, nor cared to for that matter. She had heard the stories, seen the pictures, yet it had never moved her. It was a country like any other, with its problems, with a government that didn't give a damn about its people. Yet the world wasn't entirely like her little sanctuary in Chicago. It was worse. People died on street corners, ripped away from their families, their loved ones, their children. No control over what happened, the guns held the control. People murdered, bodies thrown into piles and burned. A simple way to get rid of the evidence. No sure reason why they were killed, the one thing that will never change. From country to country, century to century. People wanting to play god, deciding when to punish, when to kill. A chill ran up and down her spine. He could have been killed. The gun to his head. Why hadn't she listened more. Why hadn't she cared more. But there is only so much listening and caring can do sometimes. She can try to listen, to care, but it doesn't help the dying man on the gurney in front of her, nor does is help the ache she feels when he's gone. Life is like a stream. It starts out slowly, moving through gentle ponds and lakes, taking its time. It gains intensity, velocity, as it cascades through mountains and rapids. It reaches its highest point, the climax, and goes plummeting down into the ocean, where it disperses. It isn't noticed when it enters, nor will it ever leave. It's trapped. Just like every human being will be one day, except it will be under six feet of cold, wet earth.
She watched the candle on her table slowly burn out. The long winding-sheet of the candle had far too long left a glow upon her. Everything will burn out one day, nothing is immortal. Except for pain. It can surpass all time lines and generations. It's the first emotion man felt and it will be the one he takes to his grave. She eased her nimble body off the heavy sofa, her feet following the normal rhythm and steps she had done for years. There is no point in trying to be happy, happiness is a lie. A lie people tell themselves to survive every day, they work, they strive for more. Or maybe its just the people here. Money. Money is happiness. Money is suffering. Everyone tells themselves they work harder each day to survive, when its not the truth. They work because they think they will gain happiness. There might be some contentment in a job well done, but you miss the important things. The forgotten birthdays or the unsung lullabies at night. The stolen lovers kiss behind a locked door, or a simple night alone. And you will never gain it back, a second chance to change what you have done. The plot of many movies, but it's not reality. Everything you miss, you miss once and for all. Every mistake you make, you make it for eternity. It can never be erased, nor forgotten. It will haunt you in the back of your mind when you are alone at night, listening to the soft patter of rain against the window. The things you could have done, the way you could have lived your life for the better. You can't change it.
She can't change. The qualities she grew up with, have been passed from generation to generation, mixed and mingled, yet still holding strong. She'll never be attractive or alluring. She'll never be headstrong, outgoing, or optimistic. They say you decide who you are. You don't. It is decided long before you are even conceived. The worst traits are always passed down, a reminder of your history. You cannot forget it. You are forced every day to remember it. Change isn't possible. People never change. Attitudes, obsessions, maturity develop. But not change. Once something is a part of you, it stays with you. No matter what masks you try to put on it, or how you try to hide it, it will be there. It will haunt you. It engulfs you and controls your life. So what's the point of trying to change? It's not worth the effort. It's like a bad habit. You think you've gotten rid of it, yet sometime you will become vulnerable. You won't realize when or where, but it will attack you, and you give in, unknowing. A bad habit, as she poor the blood red wine into the gleaming glass. A drink of delicacy, of flavor. Of death. The same color, the same flavor. Centuries of pain and suffering have all been toasted with the liquid. She just adds another occasion to the list. Something so simple can become so obsessive. It prevents you from functioning, from breathing, from living. It controls your every waking moment. All you can think of is that clear liquid, or that tan elixir. And when it touches your lips, the burn as it passes down your throat, all your problems seem miles away, and all you want is more. And you can never have enough. You will never be completely filled. Ever.
~*~
She gazed out the window at the empty street. A streetlight blinked on and off, deciding whether to shine or burn out. It had eventually lost the battle and the street was dark, except for the full moon that cast an eerie glow upon the window and trees. She was cold, way too cold for time of the year. She pulled her sleeves so they covered her fingers, stretching out the material. She could almost hear her mother yelling at her to stop doing that. That she weakened the threads. She didn't care at that particular moment. She wrapped her arms around herself, searching for some form of radiant warmth. She hadn't been able to sleep lately. So much had happened in the last few days, and she hadn't had time to fully think about it until tonight. Walking towards the couch, she put her foot underneath her, and pulled her other foot up towards her chest, forming a ball. It was a usual position for her, and she felt comfortable. It was like a shield, something that would protect her if the worst of the world came running towards her. She ran her hands through her hair, her roots beginning to show, and the many colors of the dye and highlights beginning to fade. As soon as she pulled her hand out, a few strands of hair came along, intertwined with her fingers. She shook off the loose strands and resumed her position with her hands around her legs.
She had never meant for things to come to this point, to end like this. Every single day that he had been gone, all she thought of was him. Whether he was okay, happy, safe. But he came back looking worse than ever. Those eyes that had once held so much spark were dull and empty. He had seen the worst of humanity and only came out weaker, more fragile. Like it was his fault the world was so cold and empty, full of hatred and deceit. He probably blamed himself as well. That was just the type of person he was. She could almost see him, his dark chocolate brown eyes, his dark auburn hair, his tall, slender body, slaving away just to make a difference in a single life. Yet he hadn't realized the one most in need was at home. She had needed him. Dependency was an evil thing. She couldn't go on. They had everything they had every needed: each other. And lost it. Somehow. The lightning rattled her out of her contemplations, the blast of silver casting the deathly faint city a ray of promise. But it was of no comfort to her. One of the world's beauties and miracles, was also one of the most destructive forces ever. It could set fire to a little patch of land, which grows, no control. No way to tell it where to go, or how to behave. It can never be used to advantage, tallying up the losses, second after second. Something so simple, so natural, intended to do harm. Everything is intended to hurt, to cause suffering at one point or another. It may not be for everyone, but no one has lived without being hurt by something imperceptible. The sun, a perfect choice. It nourishes the world, it provides energy for plants to grow, making the food chain run its course. But it can also kill. Too much sun, dries out land, prevents it from feeding the millions of starving people in those countries. Africa.
The thought skimmed her mind. Never had she thought of the country before. It was just a few colors on a map, an exotic place far away, that she would never visit, nor cared to for that matter. She had heard the stories, seen the pictures, yet it had never moved her. It was a country like any other, with its problems, with a government that didn't give a damn about its people. Yet the world wasn't entirely like her little sanctuary in Chicago. It was worse. People died on street corners, ripped away from their families, their loved ones, their children. No control over what happened, the guns held the control. People murdered, bodies thrown into piles and burned. A simple way to get rid of the evidence. No sure reason why they were killed, the one thing that will never change. From country to country, century to century. People wanting to play god, deciding when to punish, when to kill. A chill ran up and down her spine. He could have been killed. The gun to his head. Why hadn't she listened more. Why hadn't she cared more. But there is only so much listening and caring can do sometimes. She can try to listen, to care, but it doesn't help the dying man on the gurney in front of her, nor does is help the ache she feels when he's gone. Life is like a stream. It starts out slowly, moving through gentle ponds and lakes, taking its time. It gains intensity, velocity, as it cascades through mountains and rapids. It reaches its highest point, the climax, and goes plummeting down into the ocean, where it disperses. It isn't noticed when it enters, nor will it ever leave. It's trapped. Just like every human being will be one day, except it will be under six feet of cold, wet earth.
She watched the candle on her table slowly burn out. The long winding-sheet of the candle had far too long left a glow upon her. Everything will burn out one day, nothing is immortal. Except for pain. It can surpass all time lines and generations. It's the first emotion man felt and it will be the one he takes to his grave. She eased her nimble body off the heavy sofa, her feet following the normal rhythm and steps she had done for years. There is no point in trying to be happy, happiness is a lie. A lie people tell themselves to survive every day, they work, they strive for more. Or maybe its just the people here. Money. Money is happiness. Money is suffering. Everyone tells themselves they work harder each day to survive, when its not the truth. They work because they think they will gain happiness. There might be some contentment in a job well done, but you miss the important things. The forgotten birthdays or the unsung lullabies at night. The stolen lovers kiss behind a locked door, or a simple night alone. And you will never gain it back, a second chance to change what you have done. The plot of many movies, but it's not reality. Everything you miss, you miss once and for all. Every mistake you make, you make it for eternity. It can never be erased, nor forgotten. It will haunt you in the back of your mind when you are alone at night, listening to the soft patter of rain against the window. The things you could have done, the way you could have lived your life for the better. You can't change it.
She can't change. The qualities she grew up with, have been passed from generation to generation, mixed and mingled, yet still holding strong. She'll never be attractive or alluring. She'll never be headstrong, outgoing, or optimistic. They say you decide who you are. You don't. It is decided long before you are even conceived. The worst traits are always passed down, a reminder of your history. You cannot forget it. You are forced every day to remember it. Change isn't possible. People never change. Attitudes, obsessions, maturity develop. But not change. Once something is a part of you, it stays with you. No matter what masks you try to put on it, or how you try to hide it, it will be there. It will haunt you. It engulfs you and controls your life. So what's the point of trying to change? It's not worth the effort. It's like a bad habit. You think you've gotten rid of it, yet sometime you will become vulnerable. You won't realize when or where, but it will attack you, and you give in, unknowing. A bad habit, as she poor the blood red wine into the gleaming glass. A drink of delicacy, of flavor. Of death. The same color, the same flavor. Centuries of pain and suffering have all been toasted with the liquid. She just adds another occasion to the list. Something so simple can become so obsessive. It prevents you from functioning, from breathing, from living. It controls your every waking moment. All you can think of is that clear liquid, or that tan elixir. And when it touches your lips, the burn as it passes down your throat, all your problems seem miles away, and all you want is more. And you can never have enough. You will never be completely filled. Ever.