(no subject)
I am attempting to be happy, and I believe if I can succeed in writing something happy, then I will have actually convinced myself. (Please believe I am not depressed, merely dissatisfied with my current state).
... nothing comes forth.
Write, curse you, write!
A solitary child in an endless field of purple heather, gazing up at the clouds, smiles for, perhaps, the first time.
This is how life should be, he thinks, as his dark blue eyes sparkle with reflected sunlight. He cannot imagine a happier place than this field, where one can almost forget that anything else exists. Almost, he has escaped sound altogether.
Sound, the subtlest of attacks on the mind, ceaseless and completely unsympathetic. The smile fades a little as he remembers his greatest adversary. There were times when he thought that, if he could survive without it, he'd prefer to lose the ability to hear.
Every sound I hear is like a scrape against my mind. I feel my very brain is bruised beyond repair. Nothing was more beautiful than the silence, nothing more relaxing.
It has been awhile since I've been able to relax.
A soft wind tousles his mouse-brown hair and touches his face curiously, examining him with a breathy embrace. Satisfied, the wind leaves, silently, of course, and the boy is left to wonder at it, exactly as the wind intended.
. . . to be continued when I figure what the point of the wind is. For now, I must work on Linear Algebra homework.
... nothing comes forth.
Write, curse you, write!
A solitary child in an endless field of purple heather, gazing up at the clouds, smiles for, perhaps, the first time.
This is how life should be, he thinks, as his dark blue eyes sparkle with reflected sunlight. He cannot imagine a happier place than this field, where one can almost forget that anything else exists. Almost, he has escaped sound altogether.
Sound, the subtlest of attacks on the mind, ceaseless and completely unsympathetic. The smile fades a little as he remembers his greatest adversary. There were times when he thought that, if he could survive without it, he'd prefer to lose the ability to hear.
Every sound I hear is like a scrape against my mind. I feel my very brain is bruised beyond repair. Nothing was more beautiful than the silence, nothing more relaxing.
It has been awhile since I've been able to relax.
A soft wind tousles his mouse-brown hair and touches his face curiously, examining him with a breathy embrace. Satisfied, the wind leaves, silently, of course, and the boy is left to wonder at it, exactly as the wind intended.
. . . to be continued when I figure what the point of the wind is. For now, I must work on Linear Algebra homework.