Ghost of Echoes

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Words_are_Weapons
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Ghost of Echoes

Post by Words_are_Weapons » Fri Dec 28, 2018 10:30 am

His fingers drummed against the surface of his desk, his mind wandering as it tended to do despite the pressing deadline he faced. The setting sun peeped through the blinds like a fervent lover. It stirred through the leaves seeking a glimpse of the man’s tired eyes and their faraway gaze.

He picked up his pen and began writing, his face turned away from the page as he simply wrote what came to his mind.

Dark hair, soft and feathery cascading around bronzed skin. Light slicing across the soft fabric of a nightgown, the gentle curves it contained casting mountainous shadowy terrain around it. Lips against his, soft and warm and filled with longing he felt echoed within himself.

The man cast a glance to his empty bed, the scratching of his pen the only sound.

Empty sheets, dust motes in the moonlight dancing just out of reach of one another. The sheets were blue now, an odd serendipity as their warmth was reflected in her presence. He remembered them as a soft tan. Even the sparkling lights of breaking dawn couldn’t break the emptiness of the room.

The man blinked and looked down at his page, shaking his head as he read the words. Fantasy was easy to capture. Ideas cradled words to their chest and offered comfort, but reality was fickle, dancing just out of the grasp of her most verbose observers and denying their deepest queries. The crumpled paper joined its predecessors in the bin unceremoniously.

In a cold and lonely room the process began again, the pile of paper growing ever larger until it overtook the bin in the coming days. Nothing but fantasy driveled out in the final years of a man who couldn’t come to terms with his own life.

But from those crumpled, self-loathing bits of hope and nostalgia something was born, a spark of a fire that could have consumed the world of fanned. Smoldering, those words ate through the seams of reality it’s self, never fanning to combustion while tearing a hole straight to the heart of the soul who created them.

And in those words she born, in the fire birthed and set out without purpose or grace. A voice for a mind so long gone that even its echoes no longer remember their words. A ghost of hope kept alive by spitting in the face of reality.

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