He sits at his typewriter priming his mind before allowing his thoughts to assail the white space in front of the keys. A cooling cup of tea to his right. A common practice as evidenced by the brown rings left on the table.
(more) He begins firing key strokes;
'Silence. Often confused with peace.
That misdiagnosed, steady drone of 'white noise'. The disembodied 'shhhh' you hear when there isn't anything more to talk about. When words aren't enough and they are all you have left. The slow creep of static before the crash of reality. What happens when that salvo doesn't arrive?' He reads it over.
"Drivel." Cringing at the typewriter. Taking a sip from his cup, which at this point is cool and no longer enjoyable adding to his displeasure.
He resets his hands to the keys and continues on;
'This soundless void is my buffer outside of the cabin I built with my own hands, with my own words. I've shut myself into it and I hope to whomever that this peace will hold. The white noise will protect my home and the meager things inside. The defeated coward who hides inside. Alone with the thoughts and questions unanswered or unasked. Reliving the events that were never exactly as remembered.'
Annoyed with this text. The white noise now becoming loud in his mind.
He reaches for the cup and puts it to his lips. "Fuck!" Irate at the inanimate, cold liquid. Scanning the table for comfort, finding none. He tears out the page and crumples it. "FUCK!" Frustration overwhelming. He grabs the cup and throws it across the room smashing it on the wall.
Tears welling up in his eyes. He collapses. Defeated. Alone. The silence deafening.
I sat at the edge of the lake, kicking my feet into the water and watching the ripples. The sun was setting and the horizon was reflected beautifully into the water, like a drop of honey. The air was warm, and it caressed my face and drew my hair(more) from my eyes.
This was supposed to be my peace time, but it was nothing of it. The whoosh of the wind and the ripples in the water was not nearly enough to calm the raging in my heart.
I craved adrenalin, adventure, and something that would make my life story-worthy. Not just some stupid time sitting splashing my feet in the lake. (less)
The place was beautiful. It was a large, seemingly endless field that stretched out for maybe a hundred kilometers, possibly more. The field didn't look like as though there was a start or finish, just from where he stood to across the mountains far in the distance. The location(more) itself was spectacular, but what had really made it one of the most stunning places Arthur had ever been to was the fact that it was covered entirely in flowers.
It had been too long since he had seen such flowers; the war had lasted longer than previous wars and was more emotionally damaging with the chemicals and weapons of mass destruction. Arthur couldn't recall what kind of flowers they were, yellow and red and purple and pink and blue. Pansies maybe? Tulips? Or were they cornflowers? It was a huge mix of flowers, Arthur found that what they were wasn't important, it was the sheer fact that they were here.
They survived the wars that had raged the planet for years and years, they still stood strong. And they had made this place a graceful home.
The others that came with him were also in aw, having been affected by the turmoils of war, some much longer than him. Smiles broke out, there was running and laughter. For the first time in a long time, it was peaceful. Arthur smiled, silent tears running down his face. The World Garden, a few of them had called it. And a World Garden it would remain.
It had been far too long since Arthur finally found peace within himself, staring up at the sky. Yes, he would be proud. He would be proud, Arthur thought, joining in his fellows out into the lovely flowers, all worries disappearing from his mind.(less)
We sat on the couch, some old sitcom that we had once found moderately amusing was blaring on the TV. It was an old episode, one we had seen a few times.
There was so much to say, and yet, why say it? Would it serve any purpos(more)e for her to know? What good was it to her, to know that I didn't find her attractive? What good was it to know that I felt inadequate, because she made more money than me at her job? What good was it to know that I was so sad about what we had become?"
She laughed at something on the TV. Her legs were curled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them as she sat sideways along the couch. Her knuckles were pushed up to her mouth, and she stifled the laugh and smile with her fingertips.
Moments like that were two-headed monsters, new battles that I would have to fight out every time these bittersweet moments arose. It was a pleasant sound, to hear her satisfaction. But why the hell does she get to enjoy things while I enjoy nothing? I should spoil this moment, as she spoils all of mine. I should ask her about her job search, to remind her that I sacrifice my life, my SOUL for her lazy...
And then, I reach that point again where I know who is really responsible for the pain, for the silence, for the distance.
"But I don't care," screams the childish voice inside me. "Screw her! Screw the world! I don't need anyone!"
I took a deep breath. "I'm grabbing a sandwich, babe. Want something from the kitchen?"
"Really Dan? You know our grocery budget is limited. Why do you always do things like this? It's your fault that..."(less)