Friday, October 30, 2009

A Symphony, An Epiphany, of One Particular Lady.

"Show me a lady, and I shall write her a symphony of my own epiphany."

* * *

The night strode slowly. Watermarks from forming dew painted the cold metal panes and the glass window. The orange salt lamp glowed rather dimly, being the only strobe of light in the particularly dark room. The air was damp, and so was the empty atmosphere. The time was already late, transitioning to very early period of the next day, but eyes seemed to be so fresh an still. Sitting by the computer, he browsed through some of the latest updates from his friends in an online connection service, and he saw this:

"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy." - F. Scott Fitzgerald

He thought for a while, and he tried to relate this somehow to what he had in mind. Moments passed on very slowly, just like how the forming dew continued to paint the window with pure water. He sipped his coffee and he smoked his cigarette, and it got to him, so he wrote on his online status:

"Show me a lady, and I shall write her a symphony of my own epiphany."

And he felt relieved after posting this, somehow, for a reason no one will quite understand. And so by feeling such he continued to sit on his chair, admiring the words and the hidden meaning behind them over and over while sipping on his coffee and smoking on his halfway-done tobacco roll. He felt strange when he looked at the sentence each time, but he decided to let it go, since after all it was just a sentence, regardless of how much beatitude lied in it.

Little that he knew that, this very sentence too, gave an impact to a certain somebody, hundreds of miles away from him at that instantaneous moment.

On a reply, the only reply, to that particular post of sentence he made, she said:

"Try me."

* * *

Hundreds of miles away.

Surrounded by the coldest misery of some kind, she sat on her bed awake every endless night, thinking over things - of how life has been treating her lately, and how cheerful the good old days were as to compare to date. Like a coat of fur the memories came and blanketed her from the being a victim to vicious cold heartache, and she felt warmth quite instantly, from reminiscing the moments when she was happy and such. She went through the sweetest kinds of moments she had in the past; the time when she spent her times with her loved ones, the time when she had that jokes running in her head for days, the time when she laughed so hard that she let out tears. And she thought to herself why, why everything turned to be so gloomy now.

Where is everybody, she asked. Why could I not laugh anymore? Why it has to be so cold? These sorts of questions bombarded her mind every time she woke up in the morning, and every time she lied in bed trying to get some sleep, but couldn't. And like she always did every night, she sat on her bed, wondering.

The light from her computer screen lit the dark room like nothing else did. Even from the slightest of glance, hints of sadness showed on her face. Rather lazily she browsed through the same page over and over, hoping for some wake. This was when the sentence stroke her gently, feather-lightly.

"Show me a lady, and I shall write her a symphony of my own epiphany."

And so she said to herself, my, I would want to be that lady. And so she let him knew.

And as almost as magically two souls got connected, hundreds of miles lied in between them, through just a single wire, with such mutual understanding, such mutual needs, such mutual feelings. And just like that, it established.

Hundreds of miles away from her, in the coldest and darkest of nights, he decided to write her a symphony, of an epiphany, of this one particular lady.

* * *

If you only knew what I feel inside.

If you only knew how it feels for me to see you being so absurdly sad, disappointed with the way life was going. How it feels for me to imagine you sitting by your bed, hugging your legs burying your head in them and slowly you sobbed, letting your warm tears to flow gently over your flawless cheeks. Your messy hair touched your arms like needles to a sponge. Your skin looked dead from the outside, very much like your very own feelings at the time. Loneliness stroke in from every inch, and the beating flesh in your chest succumbed to the pain, little tiny pain that caused you to glitch every time it pinned.

There was no one beside you to calm you down. There was no one to listen to you, to stroke your hair as you cry, to let you lie your head on a concerned shoulder, let alone offer you a hug when you need one. You are your only friend, your only aide.

How I wish you dear darling, how I wish to place myself in existence next to you out of thin air, to accompany your loneliest nights, even just to sit next to you, warming you up with my caressing touch. How I wish I could tell you beautiful tales of those princesses and their charming princes, though we both perfectly knew that the stories never will ever make sense in this world we live in. And how I wish I could lay a whole arm on your shoulder as you lay your head on mine as I tell you those stories, my hand doing gentle strokes on your hair while removing the river of tears on your cheeks without you knowing.

And how I wish I could let you burst in my arms, letting every and each pain out every little second, for the sake to feel any little bit better from all these madness you had been suffering. How I wish I could share with you a stretch of comforting cotton envelope, offering you warmth and comfort from ravishing moments of shivers. I shall pat you continuously, delivering you peace slowly residing into each and every piece of your mincemeat heart. And slowly you fall asleep in my embrace, while I stay awake to protect you from any harm and danger, while in the same enjoying every bedevil second looking at that peaceful expression you'd make as you decline into promising slumber.

Never again your nights will be so empty, so lonely, so meaningless and so senseless. Never again you will wake up in the morning to see the bed is again all empty.

And nonchalantly, this I promise you, smiles will bloom again on your untarnished, adorable lips. Coral cheeks of yours will not at any time again be drenched with tears, but to gloss into blossoming, alluring buds. Exquisitely, the dark adjectives in your seemingly endless episodes of life turn rather rapidly into totally far cry episodes, this time embellished with everything beautiful and nothing that is not.

I long for your enticing smiles that brighten my days. I ache for your laughs, I miss your seraphic gestures. Watching you live each day brings me not only felicity, but also bright lights to my solitariness, even when you were not and never mine to begin with.

So please, with all my heart I plead unto you, please smile again, for it is your smile that relieves me, for with all hopes knowing that you live properly at every dash of time over there.

I will do my everything, even beyond my own capacity, to ensure that the number of poking miseries that may reach you will stay at the degree of nothing. I shall protect you from all blunders, splinters, moody damn clouds that highhandedly so far had been successful to keep you from smiling. I shall send them everlasting doom for even trying, for even having the thoughts to. I will shake the pillar of hell itself if necessary, sending them one final warning - if they'd ever try to make you unhappy again, it will be assured that they will be the sorriest thing to ever understand fully the meaning of the word sorry.

I will unleash fear, I will make them miseries run in terror with that horror look on their faces, just to make sure you feel better again. Only the important thing is, you were never mine to begin with.

And I could do to you lady, is to stand here watching how you fall agonizingly in your own defined pain, suffering from everything. I just want to let you know that quite deliberately, I too am feeling the similar thing by just looking at you.

But all I could do is to only watch, and I could only wish.

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, she is still crying.

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