Saturday, July 7, 2012

Feeling/Prologue to 'Falling Away With Ire'

            How did I come to be freezing? There is so much that I need to write about, but so much that I am afraid to put down. My imagination is populated by many terrible and underfed things, and I must look quite mysterious as I here rest in my comfort. I truly, could stay here forever. And I would stay, forever, if night did not fall down over the shades of light near me, the rays gently gleaming as strips in the hard Earth. The snow would freeze over it, creating upon it a shivering blanket. As I sit here placidly the snow creeps into the edges. I don't want to look at the wall's tapers, because they are slowly starting to melt. It has been a long time for me.
            The snow has began to fall lightly, the rain alternating with the cold white, every type of cold now twisting about each other, in a freshness . . . they twine and relentlessly overpower me, so that I might never live to see these welcoming rays of the sun, which he gently draped over the lawn, so long ago now. I look through the window, placing a hand up to feel the cold, allowing it leave to physically grace me with its everlasting dance between every type of cold imaginable . . . giving it full creative powers. It does its work.
            I sit down at the sofa, shivering. Soft music of a classical structure plays with the fluid hands of an artful composer beyond me at a greater distance down the long hall. I put my hands up to my ears to block out its power.
            But it trickles . . .
            The piano has so much personality, much like the long white hands that climb, so gently and feelingly, with a fluidity that no one but those fingers could interpret with such ease.
            I place my hands back at my sides, and let them rest, finally giving them leave to do as they beg me. I allow myself to be lulled to sleep . . . nearly. My body has become rigid with exquisite tension, wrought from a terrible longing that drives every particle in my heart toward the sound, trick-trickling of those keys. My left hand disobeys my command in order so that it may flex the entire four fingers at once in one vertical waving motion, my thumb complimenting the dance with its own version of one, and here I sit, my heart breaking. I look at the tapering of those once beautiful walls, now so faded in the light of their former artist's pen. Yet, there is still art in the house, of a type. I want so much to forget. I turn my face away from the door opening onto a hallway.
            My entire body heaves, then starts to shiver.
            The music is now stopping. I breathe heavily. The contentment has been siphoned away finally. I stroke a smooth nail. Then the longing returns afresh.
            The door has opened-

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