Memories
Was it selfish to say she was lonely?
Spare time came by once in every rare while.
Sleeping, still, wasn't appealing. It threw off everything; made her wake later; sleepiness last so much longer.
So she trained. And reacquainted herself with her friends. Took up hobbies.
She pressed leaves once.
It was fall, she had a picture book.
It became full of snapshots and pressed leaves.
Her memories of that season, of her friends who still remained.
Once, she collected rocks.
Pretty colored ones. Odd shaped ones. Crystal laden ones.
She placed them on her window ledge.
Her memories of that time, of the companionship such a hobby gave her.
She painted once upon a time.
Of places she'd been to.
Of people she knew.
Of one's she had lost.
She was surprisingly good at it.
She framed her art and hung it from her walls, glad to have found such a talent, it enabled her to deal with her feelings without resorting to words.
And then he came back.
She traveled with him, saw golden leaves like his hair and rocks who had fallen pray to nature's weathering.
And then he left her to herself; she was glad.
She met someone with an interesting, if not grotesque view on art.
He had wanted to kill her.
To trap her in time like a picture, like a pressed leaf, like a rock sitting in a windowsill, safe from the pangs of nature's course.
But she lived. And he died. And she went back home with that golden-haired boy.
But would he leave again?
And she had learned something from that trip.
A way to keep her memories alive for eternity.
And she had time again.
So she took up something new.
Not hiding leaves and rocks from time. Not freezing moments.
She would simply take her time, some cloth, miscellanities, and chakra to make a golden-haired puppet with strings.
Haha, and here we have Sakura being a bit creepy.
I no own.