Little End Room

Last week I had a conversation with a friend about poems and influences and all that jazz. Anyways, I ended up going through some old stuff I had written back in sixth form. I'd forgotten how much stuff I actually got down to writing, from poems to essays to streams of consciousness. It's amusing to see a more teen angsty take on many things, but it reminded me how much you can do if you put your mind to it. Here's one of the entries; it was written in October of 2005.

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Shelter
Blue. It was all blue. The aching, the uneasiness, the loneliness, and worst of all, the fear. All gone, somewhere far away. She was beside herself, no longer part of this world, no longer wearing the shackles that tied her down every moment of every day. Even so, the marks were there, scars from the cycle, remnants that hope is a distant memory. It was all gone, it was all blue.
The dust was dry and cool beneath her feet, and as the fields rustled in the breeze, a golden shimmer of corn shifting lazily, a few solitary rays of dim light shone through the cover overhead. It was overcast, the sky beyond the clouds not showing at all, and everything adopted that dark blue tinge as things do before heavy rainfall. Everything was still, nothing except for the persistent but gentle breeze and the girl’s soft breathing could be heard. You couldn’t really see anything in front of her, the path continued over the small hill and all around were fields. They seemed endless.
She stood there, alone in the clean, light air. Her arms crossed at the waist, she let out a gentle sigh which resounded among the entire area into eternity. It was warm, not the type of warm that comes from a sunny day, the kind that comes when everything is calm, the warm before the war, the warm after the end, the warm of that special person’s embrace. How long had she been here? She didn’t know. Time didn’t really apply here.
They say people envision things in their minds, a place they go to when things get too much to bear, a place where they feel safe. Sometimes a person needs somewhere where they can be alone, somewhere where everything is an extension of themselves. Was she alone? No. He was here. He was always here, and the reason she comes here is to feel his presence. He was the only thing that could take her burden, that would carry her through, he was what gave her life. And in this place, this precious haven, he was everywhere, the whisper in the air, the falling leaf, the smallest stone.
She let out another soft sigh and rubbed her sore wrists, the skin on her cheeks wrinkling into the faintest smile. She didn’t want to go back, it was hard back, and here she was truly free. But it didn’t matter. She had to, and she would. Being here again, it took everything away, even the fear. It was always still here, always warm, always blue. It would rain one day, when she was ready.

Out.

1 comments:

Simon said...

and you're a doctor. HA! pull the other one

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