| Subject: »··· the girl you love to hate ···« |
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‡ Possession ‡
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Date Posted: 14:37:05 08/14/02 Wed
[.x.] we are alone [.x.]
[.x.] and we will die alone [.x.]
» Lost children are left to die within their fantasies, daydreams that blend into nightmares, resulting in wisps of black angst that shielded the sun. Such was how masks went, always went, and would continue to go on as long after the children had passed. Spirals of dreamscapes left the battered corpses of what could have been at the feet of condescending deities, crucified, martyrs as they all were. Blues music coursed through the angry club scene, the result of drunken desires, passions that never fulfilled themselves in due time, promises that never held. Curses and charms tainting the image of perfection, of honeymooning couples that broke so early into their marriage. In life there were never tasks to complete, and when death closed its grip there proved to be so many things left to fulfill. Maybe that is why we die anyway, to prove the uselessness of a half existence. «
» And she was a child as lost as they come. Perhaps that was the well of her fear, or of her quest to travel and strike the smallest flame of happiness in some disturbed being. It made no sense that she had become so annoying. Hearts were a thing to be damned, and hers was bigger than first estimated, harboring the childish crush that drove canvassed pest in her journey, as ridiculous as it was. Bitter creature allows waterfalls of blood to overrun their veins, pounding on collision courses within an aging form, forever youthful despite soul’s wear, even though years numbered a small tally. Dead, reptilian optics watch without interest, one of cerulean color placed wrongly at creation, awkward along the neutral hues that made up hide. Auditaries stand at half-mast, almost lazy as the search for perfection had come to a sudden cease. Ivory splotches paint half of two-toned pelt, the other threads dyed by the black plasma spilled so generously upon her by some other being. The pain vixen had brought upon herself had magnified, welling up and pooling in normal crimson puddles, overflowing as the hopeless shock rendered itself a harsh blow of reality, a burst of agony as ruby as the bricks which delivered such a strike. «
.it is reality.
.you must face it.
.or reality will surely.
.crush you.
» Philosophy was nothing worth studying in a world that brought its own end down with nary so much as a flinch. Dirty streets held their secrets, never as soiled as the minions that crawled upon their surface, who in turned fueled the pollution of apocalypse that was of their own fault. Power was nothing, and there was no argument that could loosen the hold female kept upon such a thought. Stoic, imitating the soldier she had come to adore with more than one facet of a back-stabbing heart, fatale rests, one leg of the trek ending in a flame of bitter glory. Shooting stars overcame the clouds, breaking ice into fragments and burning everything with lit brimstone and hellfire. And as pessimistic as the consideration, it was the half-assed truth that everyone learned to live with. «
» Saltwater threatens to spill itself, to mingle with the cascades and burn the wounds, needles in the torn flesh. Vision would blur with the oceanic liquid, were it a possibility, one that could be proved were more shreds to be made of beast. Acrid lemon aftershock singed the charred remnants of mind and body, leaving a horrid shell of non-existence. No motion is made, a lone wolf in a horde of inhabitants, sure to be approached by someone she had no will to converse with. Mismatched orbs roll harshly, a snort lingering upon arid breeze, the zephyr dry and as vile as alcohol. Some life still remained within the doll, jester ripped to shreds still clinging with bloody limbs to a crumbling ledge. Enigmatic one, younger than she felt and older than she looked, hovered upon the edge of a knife, slipping with every oil-coated step. The search had yet to continue, as the flare of the drive had resided and the puzzling target faded. One day it would begin again, yes. Maybe. Maybe not. No. Never. Not living like this. Games against perfection got nasty when you never conquered them. «
» And perfection had won. «
{|} there are no coincidences {|}
{|} and there is no fate {|}
.and reality will go on.
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