Post by Lilith Vines on Jan 10, 2007 13:19:52 GMT -5
Single notebook in hand, crazed writing, loops and scratchs tangled with overgrown jungles of scribbled she somehow managed to accurately portray the scene. The couds were bright, lit up by a backlight of scarlet dampened by a screen of smog the color of smeared mascara. It was a modern beauty, complicated in all of it's disturbed eleagence. And in thousands of other's disturbance rising up to form the ghostly hosts of wisps of pollution Lilith found peace in her misery, in recording other's dispair. She hadn't had a paycheck in a month and she hoped that his would be it.
Hand searched pockets for ciggarettes and slapped her side when it came up empty. "Damn, damn, damn," a soft cadence of rough langugage accented by the now smooth strokes on the pen. The sky was fading, slowly, achingly and Lilith too felt the familiar numbness in the no-man's-land betwen her heart and her head. Sometimes she wondered if she had either.
Beauty lost, concentration sacraficed to reality once again she blinked closed her notebook that held neither poetry nor art but a mutation of the both and got up from her curled location on the edge. Sometimes on Christmas when she did get a call from her parents, they asked her how she was, asked her if she had gone to see Tim, her psychotherapist. She told him she was at the hospital and that was enough. They didn't know she was working there.
Easily she slipped off her uniform, a light blue jumpsuit with her name-tag carefully printed on it. She wasn't naked, just simply dressed in her underwear. It was still fairly warm, and Lilith never seemed to mind the cold. She needed the beauty of nature or the uglyness perhaps (they were afterall for the most part the same) to touch her, to taste her, to really understand what it wanted. What it's character was. Even the wind has eyes, has hands. By undressing Lilith just wanted to hold them, to kiss each knuckle of the breeze.
Hand searched pockets for ciggarettes and slapped her side when it came up empty. "Damn, damn, damn," a soft cadence of rough langugage accented by the now smooth strokes on the pen. The sky was fading, slowly, achingly and Lilith too felt the familiar numbness in the no-man's-land betwen her heart and her head. Sometimes she wondered if she had either.
Beauty lost, concentration sacraficed to reality once again she blinked closed her notebook that held neither poetry nor art but a mutation of the both and got up from her curled location on the edge. Sometimes on Christmas when she did get a call from her parents, they asked her how she was, asked her if she had gone to see Tim, her psychotherapist. She told him she was at the hospital and that was enough. They didn't know she was working there.
Easily she slipped off her uniform, a light blue jumpsuit with her name-tag carefully printed on it. She wasn't naked, just simply dressed in her underwear. It was still fairly warm, and Lilith never seemed to mind the cold. She needed the beauty of nature or the uglyness perhaps (they were afterall for the most part the same) to touch her, to taste her, to really understand what it wanted. What it's character was. Even the wind has eyes, has hands. By undressing Lilith just wanted to hold them, to kiss each knuckle of the breeze.
