Fiction
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We’ve chosen this. Having chosen us, continuing to walk over our premature grave like the times when we swim in each other’s skin. Love arranged this, did it not? Or was it something else? Was it mere time? Our confession turned into denial of what wasn’t absolution. Our knees once became soft at the submission
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He stands. With a beating heart that hopes to bloom, again, he stands, until he finds himself sinking with that heart. Down to earth, bringing ear to soil, attempting to find an echo in drowned scenery. His tears have poured from such storms hanging like tattered curtains above his head. His fingers have trembled, matching
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All it was, to her, was a reception. She received, but she left behind an important piece to the whole. Something that she couldn’t comprehend, perhaps? All it has been, since to repeat it becomes needed, was a reception. Something to hold, someone to hear whisper to her heart in a space inside of it
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He asked himself this question a hundred times. When he asked it, again, it wasn’t with any greater wonderment than when he asked it after the fiftieth time. This question, being, “Have I done the correct thing?” struggled to be given an answer. There had been no one else, besides himself, to hear these words
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“Who would I be, if I avoid it?” she asks, swiping a missing falling tear at her cheek as if she forgot the last. I check her posture. It stations itself, firm with preparation for what emotion she moves towards. She wants to embrace it, I know. A cold darkness. She has made a shell
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“Imagination is restricted to a world or an environment. Our world can be sculpted into anything, though it’s all interactable. How did that world become sculpted, without human interaction? A human imagined something after they interpreted it. A tree, not created by humans, though by nature, became involved in imaginative, fictional works, after interpretation.” –
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She brought her sunlight inside. I could see it, as I wasn’t blinded. I wasn’t hiding from it, because it lifted a merry smile upon my lips. What were any words to say? To this, I can only watch. A flood of bliss departs from my heart in this swelling yearning to fully explore her,
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I keep grieving on that last word, hoping that meteors will reverse themselves. Or that an eclipse will bring back its former light. Or that a tidal wave would not have crashed to topple a tower – that tower, the one where we were unified. Being held upright, because there was a desire to be
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I re-envisioned someone in a different state. A new world. Another pathway. She drew herself back into collapse, as all things, all memories would fade in her shadow. I drew her in, I carried her home. Many times, I brought her into open arms. Would they close? Would they ever truly close? I embraced an
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It was a display. A sight. A sight that had nothing for me to see, for that’s what it was. An absence. Neglect. What did she neglect? All of me, from all of her. A part of her had been torn open wide, by love, than for what love did upon me. I felt its
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“The ideal, the ambitious, the dream cannot exist on their own. Reality has to be what solidifies an ideal, an ambition, or a dream. Otherwise, it is as empty as vapor, and as meaningless as a promise never fulfilled.” – Modern Romanticism Those who have wept over characters who have died, within stories that are
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At whose presence? Was he to live? Was he to stay living? For a woman born, and also scorned. She was left to a place, inside fatal ruins, becoming and living for that fatality. He came through, entered through, and brought forth all he could not leave for merely himself. A promise. A gift. Some
Modern Romanticism 