drrieux

Somewhere far off, across an ocean, a soft breeze is blowing through the window of a single room apartment and tossing the piceous hair of our femme des rves. Wrapped in a blanket she sits alone in her room reading to herself aloud as she so often is found doing. This habit of reading aloud has made her the subject of much abuse throughout her lifetime because of petty children, and even adults who could be considered children, who think that this makes her slow. In all truth she prefers the words spoken rather than thought because in this way she is able to speak the words of the characters and thus place herself more into their position, feeling the emotions that course from the authors pen onto the page. It is therapy for her, this nightly reading. Doing things in this way allows her to escape the drivel of day to day life place herself in some extravagant situation or in the arms of someone who truly cares about her. At times the situations can become so real that she finds herself genuinely in love with the characters, only to be heartbroken when the final page is turned and the story is over. The breeze caresses the curves of her neck and wraps itself around her nape slithering its way down her back. A cold chill creeps up her spine and is startled by the tingling sensation, like electricity, throughout her body. The pupils of her eyes dilate causing the brilliant green to become not much more than a sliver around the deep black pool of her pupil. Standing up she shivers and walks towards the window to look out at the night sky. The air outside has an odd sensation within it, and she feels as if something is changing. Looking upwards at the stars, a certain pattern seems picked out and chosen to be brighter than the rest. What the pattern is isnt discernable, but she notices it just the same and mumbles softly as she returns to the chair to resume her reading. Though she is usually so entwined with her books storyline that nothing can disturb her, tonight she is mysteriously elsewhere. Unable to pinpoint why everything is different on this night her face scrunches into a confused expression. Seeing this look upon her face in the mirror she beings to laugh at herself because the ridiculousness of both, her uncalled for anxieties and the pout she is making.
This girl is one that is known because she has been introduced before. Though her scent has never been smelled, the taste of her lips never greeted the eager palate, nor her touch been felt caressing the skin. Through the lens of another admirer, her image has been seen and recorded into a permanent memory. She exists as both a real and imagined persona, but neither of these two has communicated with each other. The imagined is being searched for, while the real will be the end result. Full knowledge of this is kept in its rightful place within the mind, but the prospect seems so great that though disappointment is a grim possibility it fails to hinder the progress in any way. In all actuality the real persona is more than could ever have been imagined. All the pedestals and ideals of this female have fallen short of her grandeur. Her looks are unmatched by even Dantes Beatrice, who guided him through the paradisio and into the warm glow of his God. Pale skin compliments her unnaturally dark locks, which must be kept up once every waxing and waning period, and also allows the brilliance of her eyes to be seen from across an eternity. When those eyes attach themselves to another a temporal anomaly occurs and everything surrounding begins to slow to a stop. During this lapse in time (that one could only wish to last forever, but ends despairingly too soon) all the sensations of the world course through the veins. All the senses become consumed by the eyes of this girl and become amplified to the point of exasperation and utter ecstasy, and just when the body nearly convulses from this sudden flood of emotional captivity, the gaze is broken and time resumes its natural course. It is amazing how two organs used to view the world can have such an effect on someone. After all, what are eyes? Nothing but two liquid covered hollow orbs of tissue, and in most cases are regarded as unpleasant to the touch. Yet the eyes have an amazing power like that which was described. Beyond the simple gravity of the eyes, they also provide a way of determining many different things about a person. Emotions and personalities are conveyed through many facets, but can be hidden from nearly everything except the eyes. Staring into these mirrors, as an author once called them, anger, lust, love, happiness, the entire array of humanness can be seen. Memories are stored in these pools, an entire lifetime of dreams, hopes and aspirations, all residing inside something so seemingly trivial. What a marvel the eyes are! And the eyes of the young girl tell the story of someone who has been hated, abused, forgotten, lusted after, and left behind. Though she hides the trials of her life well, there is no cloaking them within the realm of her emerald windows to the soul.