Words

Ink.
Words.
Potential. 

[...]

Blood and tears have been my ink for as long as I can remember.

I used to be a gifted writer, they say.

But then those "incidents" began to happen.

I suffered from amnesia.

People would wind up dead, one after another, dropping like flies, whether they were the rich, the poor, the good, the bad, the vain, the humble.

All died by ink.

Ink splatters, a dark bluish black, would cover their necks, spill out their open mouths, and always, always, always... inky tears spilled, puddled and spilled near their eyes, inky dried tracks carved into their cold dead and decaying skin.

Their eyes were always found open, such eyes that once used to be so clear and filled with life, now covered in still-wet ink, dripping, dripping from their dark and clouded eyes.

I don't remember when slowly, the people I knew and loved began to back away and slowly disappear.

I don't remember. I don't remember anything.

I never did feel lonely; solitude was bliss to me; I had no need for other people, family, friends, companions.

I only needed my parchment, quill, and ink bottle.

I'd take my bag, containing my only necessities of writing materials, and run in my tattered clothing into the woods, the hills, the world beyond.

Then, I'd finally stop somewhere and sit and write.

And write.

And write.

I never remembered what I wrote afterward; as soon as I was done, I'd scrunch the paper together or fold it neatly and tuck it away under a rock, hide it in a tree's nook, or throw it in the river. 

And then I would walk away, far away.

I never remembered what I wrote.

I never did see the inky black aura I left behind;

I never did realize that words were my power,

My gift,

My curse,

My life.

[...]

I laughed as I penned their names into my stories.

The words were red. 

And my tears, black. 

Melody

Swan Lake.

[...]

She spins, spins, spins, leg lifted and hands held above in perpetual grace, as the tinny melody wafts in gentle waves of nostalgia, dancing on a mirror stage.

And then, dark silence.

[...]

The lid slams shut. 

The music stopped and she died.

The Wall

After a while, the Wall becomes something else.

[...]

The dying wilted leaves of what once was a burning gold and red crunch underfoot in a heap of lifeless brown, the winding path familiar, each footstep sure and certain, the mind elsewhere in a land of thoughts, hands though cold are ungloved, arms swinging as the meandering path unfolds.

The path is so familiar that all that passes is merely a blur - the streets, the gardens, the people walking by, the shouts of glee as children play, it passes on by as the feet walk on, defiant and unwavering in their journey, until;

The mind registers something beyond the blur that is the time going by, a striking red amongst the blue and greens, the feet hesitate, unsure, this is not the usual way, and realization hits as the feet stop; the land of abstract thoughts bursts into a tiny thousand pieces and the mind is forced into reality, as the haze slows from a whizzing blur into a very real, tangible, reality.

Here, the winds do not blow, here, the winds do not whisper, and yet, between the din of nothing and everything, one small voice breaks through all.

Here stands a red brick wall, worn and old and yet striking and glorious, sturdy in its large frame, here, the winds stop, here, there is something different.

A voice is heard. Soft whispers, speaking, talking, some mumblings about their life, some ramblings about something else.

The feet have stopped from their usual way, the winds are obedient and do not blow, the mind thinks, and as the voice continues on, together the mind and feet lean themselves against the red brick wall, the person leans themselves against the red brick wall, the courier bag falling to the side, and the voice continues on.

Many minutes pass by; the voice tells a story to the wall, something about sadness, something about joy, something about grief and everything in between, the person suspects the voice is crying, and the person is silent, lost in thought, with their back pressed against the brick, eyes cast towards the sky, as the voice is wracked with quiet sobs.

The person rises, back and shoulders sore from leaning so long on the cold unforgiving wall, the jacket dusted with light red, pausing; a moment of thought as the bag is lifted onto the shoulder, grimacing, having forgotten the heavy weight, a pause, wondering, hesitating, lifts one ungloved hand, pressing against the cold, rough, red brick, reach the voice beyond this wall and whispers,

"It's okay."

The voice - the quiet sobs - stops in stunned silence.

[...]

After a while, the Wall becomes something else.

A listener, a kind soul, a window, a place where the mask is dropped and lays abandoned on the ground...

Grey

Grey.

Something between black and white, bland, dull, not quite either, always just defined as between the two, never quite being  "something," just as "something in between." The outcast of them all, on neither spectrum nor opposite, just the nothing between the "somethings."

The outcast, the visitor, always just "there." 

[...]

One foot in front of the other, she walks on the hard asphalt pavement, neither looking up nor looking down, just going. Her brown hair, loose in the light tugging wind, today, is just brown. Today, no deeper colors to her hair, none of the usual natural slight reddish tinge nor blondish highlighted ends, today, the hair is just brown, just a dull brown. Her hands are shoved deep into the pockets of the jacket she wears, a jacket slightly too large for her small narrow frame, but it is comfortable, soft, and forgiving, so she doesn't mind. Her fingers clench into tiny fists, deep in the forgiving jacket that she wears, as she walks, each black leather boots' step soft against the hard asphalt pavement. 

Her fingers are clenched, tight, she wore no gloves today, and a quick inhale, she stops, her loose brown hair whispering with the wind. She stops, gazes at the surroundings with sad, dull, eyes  - the grass, the trees, the leaves, the wilting fading flowers, the whimpering lifting paint from the window shutters of the houses she has walked by. 

She gazes at the sky. No sun today, just some fading light peeking behind from the moving clouds - she tucks her windswept hair behind one ear, revealing a silver heart shaped earring, glinting in the faded light. 

Everything is grey today, everything is so dull, so bland, everything is so flat... She closes her eyes, a temporary darkness, she opens, still the same and with a defeated sigh, she exhales, she moves on, one soft step at a time, one foot in front of the other. 

Drip. 

Drip. Drip.

A drop splatters on the pavement, one sliding down her cheek, she starts  at the sudden chill, the sudden fit and burst of winds as the leaves rattle, the trees shake, and then the downpour comes.

Rain. 

Her fingers release from their clenched fists, as she pulls them from the dry warmth of her pockets as she stretches each finger in front of her, her palms upwards, as rain splatters each without relent, she stares back up at the sky,  gazing at the silent dark clouds that have risen from clearly something and her eyes widen, her grey eyes widen, because, as she looks around, she was so, so wrong, in the most beautiful way.

[...]

Grey. 

Something between black and white, not quite either, neither black nor white nor a color.

Grey, notorious for being neither, laughed at for being "dull," "flat," and being alone, on neither spectrum nor opposite, the outsider.

But we forget.

Grey; the calm that brings out the vibrant, the fierce, the bold that is the life of the colors.

Grey; the nothing that brings out the everything.

Especially, as it turns out, on rainy days.

Light

A dirt path from afar gives way to gravel, then to bricks, then to asphalt, there is the thudding sounds of footsteps of strangers moving, and we learn that this din is the silence of the city that rises from the barren.

Our journey has been long and weary; without halt we traveled across barren lands of snow, ice, rain, sand, sun, and before us from nothing rises a city that threatens to pierce the zenith, a saddening moment as realization hits that really, the city wishes to tear the canopy of stars and light and dark that is our sky. 

The city that rises from nothing is always moving; I am alone in the gas-lit streets, and yet all the same I am pushed here, jostled there, elbowed, cursed at as I stumble, and struggle to catch myself before again I am forced to just "move along" with the crowd that never quite stays still, while no one and everyone watches, I am still alone. 

The looming shadows that never fade block out what little natural light there is, forcing away the parting gift from the stars and moon as night falls, insisting on enveloping the city that rises from nothing with harsh lights that blind my eyes as my tears are illuminated with the artificial harsh white that tells a jarring truth, the white light that illuminates all, reflecting nothing and everything as I cry out because here, the canopy drifts above asunder, its usual glorious dismal self, hiding nothing as the savage truth of here rends me apart.

Here lies only a bleak city that rises from the torn shreds of the sky's fading radiance, as the stars fall, their waning luster clutching, weakly they glint, before failing to rise again.

Feel the pain of a fallen star,

Know the calm of standing still as the sky engulfs you with existence.