I surprised myself with another fictional piece. This one was supposed to be a blog post, but then it quickly took a turn on imagination lane, and, before I knew it, I was writing me another one of these vignette/short story things.
She was the kind of girl that they wrote poems about - sharp, passionate, witty, fiery. She was the kind of girl you’d never forget even if you just glimpsed her on the other end of a very crowded subway platform when you were on autopilot mode, drudging unwillingly to work on a monday morning.
The flash of her eyes, and her quietly dignified manner drew a small group of sophisticated eyes wherever she went. She was a fire burning brightly, a glorious mess, that attracted half-sympathetic, half-admiring bystanders.
I was nothing like her of course. My happiness didn’t make me throw my head back in laughter, and my sadness was a dull ache that was about as deep as my joy. I was neither happy nor sad - living smack down in the middle as the prim and proper girl.
I’ve seen her on the street corners sometimes, a cigarette in the crook of two long, willowy fingers, and an unsettling sadness on her smooth face.
Even our momentary eye contact made my heart thud loudly with life, and her presence made emotions - sadness, love, hate, happiness, and fear - soar through my veins like they’d never done before.
I was nothing and she was everything. Well, that isn’t quite true. I was boring, steady, and well-planned. I had everything that society would ever want from a girl like me - an apartment, an education, a life’s goal, and even money.
She was reckless, aimless, and an emotional rollercoaster. She trailed her fingers along a new chiseled jawline everyday. I don’t know if she ever slept, but she didn’t look like she ever did.
By all means, she was nothing, and I was everything.
But it was her laughs that rang most loudly at midnight on a random rooftop overlooking the big city. It was she who stood up for things that troubled her. It was her blood that thumped inside of her proclaiming the grandness of her existence. It was she who was alive.
Without much (more) ado, here it is :
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| From: http://liveandlearnwithlove.tumblr.com |
She was the kind of girl that they wrote poems about - sharp, passionate, witty, fiery. She was the kind of girl you’d never forget even if you just glimpsed her on the other end of a very crowded subway platform when you were on autopilot mode, drudging unwillingly to work on a monday morning.
The flash of her eyes, and her quietly dignified manner drew a small group of sophisticated eyes wherever she went. She was a fire burning brightly, a glorious mess, that attracted half-sympathetic, half-admiring bystanders.
I was nothing like her of course. My happiness didn’t make me throw my head back in laughter, and my sadness was a dull ache that was about as deep as my joy. I was neither happy nor sad - living smack down in the middle as the prim and proper girl.
I’ve seen her on the street corners sometimes, a cigarette in the crook of two long, willowy fingers, and an unsettling sadness on her smooth face.
Even our momentary eye contact made my heart thud loudly with life, and her presence made emotions - sadness, love, hate, happiness, and fear - soar through my veins like they’d never done before.
I was nothing and she was everything. Well, that isn’t quite true. I was boring, steady, and well-planned. I had everything that society would ever want from a girl like me - an apartment, an education, a life’s goal, and even money.
She was reckless, aimless, and an emotional rollercoaster. She trailed her fingers along a new chiseled jawline everyday. I don’t know if she ever slept, but she didn’t look like she ever did.
By all means, she was nothing, and I was everything.
But it was her laughs that rang most loudly at midnight on a random rooftop overlooking the big city. It was she who stood up for things that troubled her. It was her blood that thumped inside of her proclaiming the grandness of her existence. It was she who was alive.
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Thanks for reading! :)
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