alright, like everything I write, a wind came and I have this urge. I have spent weeks looking through here for good Edward fiction and I am so tired of stories about Edward meeting some new modern girl who talks like, like , like totally like this. Everything is shallow and I want to write something for the story that really shows what the story is. Where can I begin? Again, I have no idea where this is going. I just want to write, which I haven't done for a very long while.
Snow. He enjoyed bringing the snow. It had made people happy when he did it. It had been such a good feeling, to make people happy. To see their eyes light up. To give him existance. A job, if you will. Every year around the holidays, even though he knew he couldn't be there with them, he was doing his part. And every year when that first chill went through the air, and the lights and trees went up, he knew it was time for work. And so this is how it went year after year.
An eventless existance, put into schedule like clockwork. Edward became, like every part of the town, one small wheel that made up the motion of life. One wheel that was sent into motion by another, and put motion to others. A monotonous life-style that went on for a number of years. Everything fell into order once more. He didn't need to sleep anymore, a strange gift he had been given but had no need for. He had slept before. It had been a nice experience, to dream. Having never experienced dreams before, it had come as an unexpected thrill.
But he hadn't slept since the days he had been part of the town. Oh, it had been so nice to be part of them. Not just and outsider, quietly doing their part to move things along. Not standing on the sidelines, not watching from above, helpless and unable to do anything but watch. Now his days were like metal. Hard and bare and ever getting cold. Metal, cold and dangerous. Yet useful, and misunderstood. When metal is understood, it can be used to make great things, to be used for tools and trivial things and weapons. Vast and cold and bare. That was his existance.
He never slept, and watched the day turn to night, having nothing to do but roam around the house, and watch. He watched as children grew up, as people moved away. And when that first small chill came through the place, he got to work on his sculptures, never letting anyone down. But he yearned for it again, as he always had. He wished he had been finished. He wished he could sleep and eat and feel. Nerves were such a strange thing that he didn't quite understand, having little experience using them. He wished he understood what seemed obvious to the rest, that he understood why it had to be.