The truth is a lie.
Advice
"You affect me."
The steps were shaky, when they were taken; feet stumbling in their rhythm to a place he almost knew well. A battered play-set he often ignored, trees placed strategically, and a path looping the area. Large rocks, comparable to boulders had somehow made their way to the center of the area, and there was many a day where Albedo found himself in the shadow of one of them, notebook in hand as he attributed mental turmoil to paper in disjointed ways, words and pictures rising through the chaos.
And he had pictured them there, to complete the picture as he hid; Nigredo sunning himself above, and Rubedo standing over him arguing about what to do. It was so clear sometimes, so amazingly believable, that he found himself talking out loud to nothing.
But supposedly, now, there would be someone there.
His hurry was badly masked, his desperation all too apparent. But even now, Albedo didn't know what he was desperate for. Nigredo had said something strange, something wonderful; something horrible and shaking, and Albedo couldn't move. And even now, he.... He could not move. The trees were rising in the distance, grass gaining width as he approached, birds singing their evening song as the sunlight slipped away. The day was vanishing like the light had never been. And no one waited in the space in front of him. He paused on the edge, hands clutched to his chest. There was no one there.
Feet sliding him to the largest rock, he wondered if there had ever been one coming. Echoes of words unspoken played in his head, and he wondered, once more, about the thought of losing touch.
"You affect me."
The steps were shaky, when they were taken; feet stumbling in their rhythm to a place he almost knew well. A battered play-set he often ignored, trees placed strategically, and a path looping the area. Large rocks, comparable to boulders had somehow made their way to the center of the area, and there was many a day where Albedo found himself in the shadow of one of them, notebook in hand as he attributed mental turmoil to paper in disjointed ways, words and pictures rising through the chaos.
And he had pictured them there, to complete the picture as he hid; Nigredo sunning himself above, and Rubedo standing over him arguing about what to do. It was so clear sometimes, so amazingly believable, that he found himself talking out loud to nothing.
But supposedly, now, there would be someone there.
His hurry was badly masked, his desperation all too apparent. But even now, Albedo didn't know what he was desperate for. Nigredo had said something strange, something wonderful; something horrible and shaking, and Albedo couldn't move. And even now, he.... He could not move. The trees were rising in the distance, grass gaining width as he approached, birds singing their evening song as the sunlight slipped away. The day was vanishing like the light had never been. And no one waited in the space in front of him. He paused on the edge, hands clutched to his chest. There was no one there.
Feet sliding him to the largest rock, he wondered if there had ever been one coming. Echoes of words unspoken played in his head, and he wondered, once more, about the thought of losing touch.