10-27-2007, 06:59 AM
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There was no sun. The clouds blanketed the entire sky and no matter how hard the wind blew, the heavens wouldn't open up to reveal the light from above. The fog crept quietly across the forest floor, half-hiding the carpet of red and golden leaves underneath and curling around the bare branches of the shedding oaks. It was another year dying slowly, withering with every breath and every backwards hour until only the skeletons were left raking at the sky. Vaguely, he thought he missed the snow because everything seemed so clean when it was covered, but he knew hiding the dirt didn't make it any less dirty and pretending never made anything better. And every snowflake was like a thousand years longer than he should have lived already.
He rarely read anymore and honestly didn't know why he he was doing so now. It had been long enough that the words were harder to remember though the passages jumped out clearer to him than even his own memories. The wrinkles of the pages were more familiar than his dreams. It was Shakespeare, of course, master of the tragedies doomed to repeat themselves over and over, beyond the age of his contemporaries, beyond even the realm of fiction; his were the words that were set to recycle until the apocalypse that so many of his characters had already faced on their own. And he read them knowing well their truth, their lies, their signifying nothings. What else was there to do these days?
The tattered hybrid leaned back against the half-naked oak and sighed a breath into the breeze.
There was no sun. The clouds blanketed the entire sky and no matter how hard the wind blew, the heavens wouldn't open up to reveal the light from above. The fog crept quietly across the forest floor, half-hiding the carpet of red and golden leaves underneath and curling around the bare branches of the shedding oaks. It was another year dying slowly, withering with every breath and every backwards hour until only the skeletons were left raking at the sky. Vaguely, he thought he missed the snow because everything seemed so clean when it was covered, but he knew hiding the dirt didn't make it any less dirty and pretending never made anything better. And every snowflake was like a thousand years longer than he should have lived already.
He rarely read anymore and honestly didn't know why he he was doing so now. It had been long enough that the words were harder to remember though the passages jumped out clearer to him than even his own memories. The wrinkles of the pages were more familiar than his dreams. It was Shakespeare, of course, master of the tragedies doomed to repeat themselves over and over, beyond the age of his contemporaries, beyond even the realm of fiction; his were the words that were set to recycle until the apocalypse that so many of his characters had already faced on their own. And he read them knowing well their truth, their lies, their signifying nothings. What else was there to do these days?
The tattered hybrid leaned back against the half-naked oak and sighed a breath into the breeze.