Deux
Not a day passes by without him thinking of what would happen if his own life was a mist. His deep sorrow of loneliness keeps on drilling into his thoughts and reminds him, day by day; what he had lost; what he longs for; what is never to come; and his heart, filled with depression and an insecurity for himself.
He spreads out his palms. Of what used to be to him was the most clarous, soft, and fine detailed things ever, is now filled with bruises which was the product of his own grief, a thick calous that act like bone plates making his hands heavy, like stones which grown onto him.
He stares at them. The once soft, gentle hands which held the ones he loved in a gentle, deep, carass. Now as numb as the hearts that he feels has abandoned him. Dark, rough hands that seem fit enough for handling heavy duty tools.
He rests for a moment. Leaning on the back of an old, broken down chair that seem to be still able to hold his weight.
He inhales deeply. and again, reminded of the smiles, that used to surround him. Haunted by images and ghosts of the people who held him tightly in their arms. Now just a specter of his lost love. A shadow that begs for light in order to be seen.
He breathes out and tries to calm himself down and comfort himself.
He stares at everything that surrounds him. Things left behind by the people who used to be always there for him. Symbols for every single moment, action, word, and face that he has witnessed.
A painting falls from a shelf and calls his attention. He approaches it a nd picks it up. He remembers who made it and the time it was made. A girl, someone who already was the real him. The one inside him that he hides from everyone. She was one of the few people in he knows who already was this side of him. But still, even though She knows how lonely and how deprived from happiness he is, She still hasn't come back.
He weeps for the past memories of her. The rare happy times that used to bring him up from sorrow in an instant. Those precious memories of the past, suddenly creeping up his head and drenching his body of a sensation he could only describe as anguish.
A tear crawls from the side of his right eye, rolls from his cheek to his chin. Drops onto the painting and clears the name of the one who made it. The person who once promised to be forever there for him as he also promised to be forever there for her.
"Where are they?" He asks himself.
"Where's everyone?".
He grasps the painting into his arms and continue to weep. Being pounded with his memories of their precious times, his vision starts to darken and his lings get heavy.
He passes out.
Falling asleep on the floor with his arms still around the painting.
His eyes, still drenched with tears.
He spreads out his palms. Of what used to be to him was the most clarous, soft, and fine detailed things ever, is now filled with bruises which was the product of his own grief, a thick calous that act like bone plates making his hands heavy, like stones which grown onto him.
He stares at them. The once soft, gentle hands which held the ones he loved in a gentle, deep, carass. Now as numb as the hearts that he feels has abandoned him. Dark, rough hands that seem fit enough for handling heavy duty tools.
He rests for a moment. Leaning on the back of an old, broken down chair that seem to be still able to hold his weight.
He inhales deeply. and again, reminded of the smiles, that used to surround him. Haunted by images and ghosts of the people who held him tightly in their arms. Now just a specter of his lost love. A shadow that begs for light in order to be seen.
He breathes out and tries to calm himself down and comfort himself.
He stares at everything that surrounds him. Things left behind by the people who used to be always there for him. Symbols for every single moment, action, word, and face that he has witnessed.
A painting falls from a shelf and calls his attention. He approaches it a nd picks it up. He remembers who made it and the time it was made. A girl, someone who already was the real him. The one inside him that he hides from everyone. She was one of the few people in he knows who already was this side of him. But still, even though She knows how lonely and how deprived from happiness he is, She still hasn't come back.
He weeps for the past memories of her. The rare happy times that used to bring him up from sorrow in an instant. Those precious memories of the past, suddenly creeping up his head and drenching his body of a sensation he could only describe as anguish.
A tear crawls from the side of his right eye, rolls from his cheek to his chin. Drops onto the painting and clears the name of the one who made it. The person who once promised to be forever there for him as he also promised to be forever there for her.
"Where are they?" He asks himself.
"Where's everyone?".
He grasps the painting into his arms and continue to weep. Being pounded with his memories of their precious times, his vision starts to darken and his lings get heavy.
He passes out.
Falling asleep on the floor with his arms still around the painting.
His eyes, still drenched with tears.
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