Post by xToTheENDx on Jan 5, 2008 20:46:15 GMT -5
The incessant pounding beats at rhythm with the thumping of Gerard's heart. He slowly opens his eyes to view the pounding waves that fly against the sharp rocks below, breaking everything in their path.
He can taste the salty, sea air on his tongue, its bitterness mixes with his sorrow, creating a sour concoction of brackish wounds. He tries in vain to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear, before the wind again picks it up, and flings it against his wet, pale brow.
With every rhythmic hammering of the rocks, a crack is made in his calm demeanour. Until, with one colossal wave, it is broken entirely, and he falls to his knees, clawing his head with his hands, screaming in anguish, torment, and sorrow.
I'm lost
I'm lost
I'm lost.
He screams to the apathetic waves, and sobs as he crawls to the edge of the large cliff-like precipice. He finds some strength from the hypnotic beat of the never changing waves. Swiping his hands across his soaked eyes, he stands to his feet, and spreads his arms out over his head.
I am an eagle.
The waves seem to be drawing him in, as he takes a step closer, and closer to the edge.
How it is comforting to entertain the thought of letting those cold waves embrace him. Toying with the idea, he dangles a foot over the edge of the cliff, letting the despair sweep over him, in waves, waves that coincide with the pounding of the rocks below.
Then, as he brings himself closer and closer to flinging himself into oblivion, the mist tickles his face… and he laughs.
The sound startles him and he looks around to see where the foreign noise had come from. Seeing no one, he shrugs, wondering at what humor could come to him in such dire circumstances. He looks down at the waves again, and catches site of a small green plant, holding strenuously to the rocks as wave after wave washed over it in never-ending sequence. He quizzically tilted his head, and squinted into the mist. Surely this coming wave, a larger one then most, would wash the flimsy plant from its fragile hold. Yet, as the wave retreated, waiting for the reinforcement of the tide, the plant remained.
He dropped to his knees, staring down off the cliff.
“Forgive me,” he spoke to the plant, “I've failed to realize how strong even you can be, because if you can face the tidal waves, days and days, never-ending, then I myself can face this destitute life.” He stood, drawing one last look at the plant as he turned to leave, and walked away.
There is hope.
---------------
I kind of hate it.
Comments?
He can taste the salty, sea air on his tongue, its bitterness mixes with his sorrow, creating a sour concoction of brackish wounds. He tries in vain to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear, before the wind again picks it up, and flings it against his wet, pale brow.
With every rhythmic hammering of the rocks, a crack is made in his calm demeanour. Until, with one colossal wave, it is broken entirely, and he falls to his knees, clawing his head with his hands, screaming in anguish, torment, and sorrow.
I'm lost
I'm lost
I'm lost.
He screams to the apathetic waves, and sobs as he crawls to the edge of the large cliff-like precipice. He finds some strength from the hypnotic beat of the never changing waves. Swiping his hands across his soaked eyes, he stands to his feet, and spreads his arms out over his head.
I am an eagle.
The waves seem to be drawing him in, as he takes a step closer, and closer to the edge.
How it is comforting to entertain the thought of letting those cold waves embrace him. Toying with the idea, he dangles a foot over the edge of the cliff, letting the despair sweep over him, in waves, waves that coincide with the pounding of the rocks below.
Then, as he brings himself closer and closer to flinging himself into oblivion, the mist tickles his face… and he laughs.
The sound startles him and he looks around to see where the foreign noise had come from. Seeing no one, he shrugs, wondering at what humor could come to him in such dire circumstances. He looks down at the waves again, and catches site of a small green plant, holding strenuously to the rocks as wave after wave washed over it in never-ending sequence. He quizzically tilted his head, and squinted into the mist. Surely this coming wave, a larger one then most, would wash the flimsy plant from its fragile hold. Yet, as the wave retreated, waiting for the reinforcement of the tide, the plant remained.
He dropped to his knees, staring down off the cliff.
“Forgive me,” he spoke to the plant, “I've failed to realize how strong even you can be, because if you can face the tidal waves, days and days, never-ending, then I myself can face this destitute life.” He stood, drawing one last look at the plant as he turned to leave, and walked away.
There is hope.
---------------
I kind of hate it.
Comments?