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Dec. 7th, 2006 04:41 amI do not belong here.
Anyone who knows anything about her, however little, would have deduced this.
It is the faraway, empty gaze of her eyes, and the emotionless face often accompanied by a dipping of her head and a long, wistful sigh. It is the tired body slouching backwards in her chair, her hands fingering the cross at her chest as if in prayer, and a tear given birth by the corner of an eye.
She is lost in an endless void.
Her empty gaze stares into the past, to a time before the madness. She sees a time when she loved freely, a time when great things were made by - no, expected of - her. She sees a time when melodies danced from her fingers and black and white keys spoke on behalf of her lips.
But now the fingers no longer dance, and the lips must speak for themselves. The digits are frail and weak from years of misuse, and the keys make only a stuttering noise that barely resembles the beautiful whispers of sound they once made.
Now few ever hear the mutterings of her heart, for words alone are hopelessly not fit to convey them. Those who have heard them know the infinite torment within her.
In the madness she sought meaning in a cold, structured life, and found only despair. So terrible was this despair that the madness broke from her and she tried to flee from the despair. She prays for the days of greatness to return and carry her to freedom, for despair has taken her freedom captive.
My freedom lies in song, and in song alone.
She has nothing to offer in ransom, so she remains in despair, and a tear rolls down her cheek.
And despair tightens its grasp on her, pulling her further and further into the well of darkness, where silence reigns with failure at its side.
All she wants right now is to regain her grip on the last threads of freedom before they are taken away from her forever.
But this is a place where she does not belong, where her love has no true place, only places for the impostors. The impostors love not for freedom's sake but for some perverse and vulgar motive. They love not for beauty but for lust, and the voice of experience tells her this is so.
She cries out for her love, to which the impostors reply, "Beggars cannot be choosers: Love as we do or leave, for we will not hear you." She refuses, but she cannot leave.
And so she stares from her window - as she has daily for uncountable years - into the cold, dark night.
Anyone who knows anything about her, however little, would have deduced this.
It is the faraway, empty gaze of her eyes, and the emotionless face often accompanied by a dipping of her head and a long, wistful sigh. It is the tired body slouching backwards in her chair, her hands fingering the cross at her chest as if in prayer, and a tear given birth by the corner of an eye.
She is lost in an endless void.
Her empty gaze stares into the past, to a time before the madness. She sees a time when she loved freely, a time when great things were made by - no, expected of - her. She sees a time when melodies danced from her fingers and black and white keys spoke on behalf of her lips.
But now the fingers no longer dance, and the lips must speak for themselves. The digits are frail and weak from years of misuse, and the keys make only a stuttering noise that barely resembles the beautiful whispers of sound they once made.
Now few ever hear the mutterings of her heart, for words alone are hopelessly not fit to convey them. Those who have heard them know the infinite torment within her.
In the madness she sought meaning in a cold, structured life, and found only despair. So terrible was this despair that the madness broke from her and she tried to flee from the despair. She prays for the days of greatness to return and carry her to freedom, for despair has taken her freedom captive.
My freedom lies in song, and in song alone.
She has nothing to offer in ransom, so she remains in despair, and a tear rolls down her cheek.
And despair tightens its grasp on her, pulling her further and further into the well of darkness, where silence reigns with failure at its side.
All she wants right now is to regain her grip on the last threads of freedom before they are taken away from her forever.
But this is a place where she does not belong, where her love has no true place, only places for the impostors. The impostors love not for freedom's sake but for some perverse and vulgar motive. They love not for beauty but for lust, and the voice of experience tells her this is so.
She cries out for her love, to which the impostors reply, "Beggars cannot be choosers: Love as we do or leave, for we will not hear you." She refuses, but she cannot leave.
And so she stares from her window - as she has daily for uncountable years - into the cold, dark night.
