Ode to the Lonely soul

I awoke in the same place I left. Breath gasping, nails cutting into the red velvet armchair. Fire ablaze, sparks casting moving shadows along the walls. Crystal shimmering alongside the sparks, echoing the melting ice. A branch before the window dancing with the darkness within.

In the darkness, everything appeared normal. Something was off, however. Each breath tasted normal. The fire cast its warmth externally. The sounds of silent echoed, as it did daily. Yet something felt wrong.

My pen still gave its ink to the page. Notebook, empty and open. Revealing itself to the crystal ashes. Stains of ink bled through like memories of the past. She lay there, accepting without protest. Each stroke, each line being placed with conflict.

In the emptiness of the mind, everything was off. The fire was not quite warm enough. The branch begged and begged to get in, from the opposite side. The page looked at back up at me as I carved in her. Guilt ridden shadows knocked against the glass, tormenting the branch. Everything was the same, but slightly different.

The velvet chair moved under the skin. Crystal echoed the silent noise of the world which surrounded me. On the brink of darkness, each breath was strained. The air was still, stiff, stale and empty. Its hollowness mirrored the lonely soul watching his world turn.

I imagined footprints in the snow. A man alone, wandering through a whiteout. A castle, a modern cityscape, silhouette beckoning to him. His feet moved him closer, but the closer he got the further away salvation became. A chain attached to his waist dangling desire in front of him. He walked himself in circles, desperate. Alone. Contemplating how the path led him here.

My gasping breath, and guilty hand scratched word after word into the page. Listening for her silent cries. The pain of the outside distracting from the pain within. The bound pages running low, its end nearing. A revelation of mortality, regrets floating to the surface.

Here in the darkness of white and snow. The mind wanders to the truth of lies. Forward thinking about the past. This undesirable ending, the box of society. Struggling. Forcing the restraint to tighten. Struggle more. It flows the like the wings of birds.

As my muscles tense and attempt to leave the armchair. Her voice echoes through the room. The ice cracks withing the crystal. Soft. Sensual. Soothing. Elegant in the way her words go from one to the other. Jealousy ignites the page as ink spills over each word. In my lonely world of lifeless objects and bitter truths, a light begins to shine.

As with the footprints, I allow my mind to wander in search of her, the sound. It draws me in circles. Bringing me closer, then pulling her away. Her skin was soft as silk. Her lips like the wind lapping at ones face. Her touch sends shivers through ever nerve in the body. Pure. Beauty.

Memories surge and the fire begins the rage against itself. Burning out. Devouring the wood, the fuel, like a starving dog. Temptation.

There is a cliff in the mind and along the edge of it is a room. In this room, there is a single red armchair, walls accented by selves of books, a fire place with an ever burning flame. There are two tables one on either side of the chair; the first holds a single pen and paper, lovers to the end. Pain and suffering accompany their love, as the pen scratches away at the heart of the page she accepts it, welcomes it, allows it. On the other is a never ending crystal glass, it is always half full with whatever you imagine. Outside this room is a singular tree, it longs and dreams of entering. For each attempt, each tap it its pulled further back. Forced to watch from the outside, never belonging forever dreaming.

"Before we can find the one we are destined to belong to, we must find ourself. To do this we must allow each grain of sand to tell you its truth; listen to for the whispers of lies, the glimmers of truth and allow the beauty of the world to fill your eyes, heart, soul and mind. Once we have discovered who we are, that person will be waiting." - Authors note 16