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When you start to cry, that's when you know that full realization has finally set in. As soon as the first tear falls from your eye, you know. There can no longer be any denial. It's over. Then the world will turn inside out, and the sky will become black like the night and seem like it will never, ever be light again. But, like all nights, the darkness will pass and the despair will fade. Like love, hate and pain cannot last forever. Be patient, it will all work out, all you need is time. Don't give up yet.
Once the tears have slowed, and the heartache has dimmed, sit back and think. Think about the memories, the times the two of you laughed, cried. Of the times you spent together, thinking only of the person next to you, imagining the future you could have; The cottage, with the white picket fence and the sparkling green grass upon which your children would play with their friends. But don't remember with bitterness, but remember that there will be another, someone you'll love just as much. Everything you never got a chance to say to them you can say to another.
It was cold. Airly, Nova Scotia was always cold, but Emma Crusher still hadn't gotten used to it. She stared out at the frostbitten weeds and over-grown grass that was the front lawn. There had once been gorgeous lilac bushes and brilliant golden flowers, but those days had all but faded from memory. Now the only thing of beauty was the abandoned birdbath that stood in the center of the lawn, amid the dandilions. A poor substitute for the dafodils that had once littered the space.
The scent of smog reached her, she didn't notice. Airly always smelled of smog.
'He's not coming.' came a gentle voice behind her. Emma didn't turn around.
'He never does.' was all she said.
Angel came over and took a seat next to her sister. One could hardly guess they were twins, with Angel's black curls and Emma's bright red ringlets, Angel's hazel eyes and Emma's blue-green. Angel was taller, free-spirited and wild. She was confident, sure of herself. Emma was old-fashioned, elegant, and classic… poetic. She was scared and uncertain. The only thing the two had in common was that they were bound to that house, despite its leaky roof and drafty windows.
For time beyond memory, darkness has always been portrayed as evil, why? Shadows lurk around every corner, hidden by the very darkness that they are made of. It hides from us the truth, concealing it in bleak nights, alowing us to ignore what we do not wish to know.
But light blinds us, doing the same amount of damage! Which is the greater evil? To be so blinded by the light that we worship that we cannot see what is before our eyes, or to be so ignorant of what lays beyond the darkness that we no longer care?
Misery. Love, joy, sadness. I cannot understand these things. I do not know what it is like to be truly happy, honestly sad. Does this make me cold-hearted? Does it make me in-humane? I wish I knew. I wish I could look into a mirror and see my soul, rather than a young girl with curly-straight (it can never quite make up its mind) hair and blue-gray-green eyes that don't sparkle, they don't even give off a steely-glare. I want to see me. I guess that's why I like 100words so much, as it lets me glimps my true self.
Nothing is concrete. Nothing is set in stone. Everything can be forgotten. Don't expect anyone to be any different. We are, after all, only human- well, some of us are deamons but that should make no difference. Saints don't exist now-a-days. I doubt they ever really did, but the history was writen and we cannot debate it. Even if we could, it would be pointless. After all, the cliché's always said that you cannot change the past. The words have been written, the story's been told. Get used to it. Well, my thoughts certainly did wander with this entry! Interesting…
In a world where hate and fear are as normal as air and water, I feel like I want to kill myself. I've decided to be honest with myself, and that is one of the most truthful things I can think of to say. It's not too depressing. I guess the next step is to admit that I'm extreamly selfish. Not in an open, extravagant way, but secretly. I want to have so much, to own, to BE. Is this wrong? On the bright side, my novel characters are always the opposite of myself. Maybe there's hope for me yet.
The storms were making the electricity go haywire. When he flipped the light switch, it was like a slow rise to conciousness, you knew it would get there someday, but sometimes it seemed doubtful. His sister stood out in the rain, staring up at the crying heavens. He called her in, but she did not hear. Or diddn't listen, which was far more likely. The last rays of sunlight sank into darkness, and the sight of the moon was now the only light in the sky, the clouds blocking out all traces of stars. There would be lightning that night.
There are some things in this world that will forever be in debate. The existance of King Arthur and Robin Hood. The full extent of the universe. How old the earth acctually is (many people, myself not included, have ideas other than what science has estimated). The validity of dreams, prayers. The idea that history repeats itself. Weather or not it is lucky to be able to fall in love with your best friend… to marry them and be together forever, or destroy that which you hold most dear. It's all just a matter of luck and hope and dreams.
Mars is about to be the closest to earth it has been in AT LEAST 3,000 years, and it's raining. It has been raining, clouded over and smoggy all month. If conditions don't improove within the next couple days, I swear I will scream of frustration and anger, then spend the rest of my life trying to get out into space so I can go and see the stupid planet that won't be this close to earth for at least another 3,000 years. I hate the stupid rain clouds. (Yes, those same clouds I write about in every other post…)
Well, here I am again, writing my 100 words. I never really thought of this daily excersise as a journal so much as a place to excersise my creativity. However, having reached a rather severe block in my imagination, I find I can't think of anything to be creative about. This is my first experience with writers-block. We all say we've had it, but how'd you know? There've been times where I can't figure how to phrase something, or I can't quite think of what's to be the next event, but I've always got an idea for the far future.
Still fighting writer's block. Maybe I'm just too upset to write. I feel utterly depressed, like I need to just sit down and cry for an hour or two- but I don't know why! I guess it doesn't help that every time I watch a movie or read a book the author/script writers kill off my favorite character. Every time I see Haldir die (LotR, TTT) I cry. Well, not really. I have lately, but every time I see it, it gets more depressing. After that character in Harry Potter was killed (won't say who)… I can't take this anymore!
It is cold, oh-so-very cold. Here in the darkness, lost in the realm of the unseeing, the unfeeling.
I do not wish to go on. I cannot continue like this. Yet, I have no choice. Wherever I am, I can hear it. The whispers, the silent calls. I cannot ignore them for long. I know that, should I find it, I might be released from this torture, this imprisonment of my own greed. I might, at last, be free.
But then HE will have it. He who sees all. I can feel his gaze, ever searching, just as I am.
He knows that he will find it in time, he knows that he will either find it or die. I do not have this pleasure. If I do not find it, I will be doomed to search for it until time ends and all but the whispers of the wind in the dead, ashen trees has faded from memory. He will find it, recieving the freedom I so wish to have. As long as it lives, I will be trapped, imprisoned within my own desires to own it, to rise above that which I have become. That which I am.
I remember a time when I was a great king, respected and feared by all. I was one of the nine kings of men. One of the 19 Sauron had deemed worthy to recieve the Great Rings. I had been proud to have been selected. I had been eager to proove his faith in me was not misplaced.
I had been a fool.
Now, as I travel accross the lands, searching for the one that bears the Ring, I wonder if I could turn against the eye, as he once turned against me, so many years ago, shaded in darkness.
But the ring still calls to me, and I cannot ignore it's cries. I can no longer fight against the yearning it has. The yearing to be taken in it's master's hands once more, to be used for the purpose of which it was created. To be able to use it's full power. To destroy all that now exists in the world.
A part of me wants to help it accomplish this task, but I know that this is the part that is controled by my own ring, still clinging to the cold, bone-like fleash of my finger. Still trapped.
The rest of me wonders what the right path is. I am caught in a second trap, one created by my own mind.
The path before me is hard to turn from, but I could. I could delay my search as much as possible, give those that fight the Deciever a chance to win. I could... and yet, did I wish to do so? To be cast once more into endless darkness, without purpose without reason? At least now, with Sauron's rise, I know what is expected of me. At least now, I know where my road will lead me.
I know where it is I am going.
I have a purpose, unwilling as I am to follow it. Perhaps I cannot turn away from this. Perhaps I have followed this path for too long. I steped onto it blindly, not knowing where it would lead, and now I follow it blindly, unwilling to see what it will bring.
The past couple entries are all a part of the same theme, they are one, continuous stream of thought. The person who's pov I wrote them in is a Nazgul, from the Lord of the Rings books by J.R.R.Tolkien. Thank you.
I turned away from the corpse, then realized with shock that that's all he was to me. A corpse, an empty shell that had once held life but now lay sprawled in the earth, the blood still seeping slowly into the dirt.
People say that when you go through hell with someone, you and that person will forever be bound together, but if all we, as a fellowship, had gone through had not been hell, then I do not dare think of what might be. And yet, I still felt nothing. No emptiness, no regret. Not even a small pang.
Boromir had died, and I knew what it had been he'd been trying to tell me as his life seeped out. I should be king. He now wanted me to take the position that I had fled from for so long. And still, there was nothing.
I thought of Frodo, still bearing the burden of the One Ring. That shiney golden piece that I had thought of so much since I had met the hobbit. But I had let Frodo go, something that Boromir, in all his glory, could not do. At last, I felt something, but it wasn't sadness.
I had arrived too late, for all my elven speed and skill. From where I stood among the trees, I watched as Boromir's usually bright, excited eyes dimmed and faded into the nothingness that comes with death.
After Gandalf's fall, I had had to convince myself that he would be the only one of the fellowship to leave us. It had taken many weeks, but I had managed. Now, I would have to do so again. If I do not, then I shall despair, and then, all will be lost. I closed my eyes and muttered a prayer for him.
She stared up into his warm yet icy blue eyes. They held nothing new. Nothing beyond the sudden realization of just how deep her love for him went, and regret that he could not return it. She felt her heart sinking. Love was truely a horrible thing, yet she could not help but feel it for the man that stood before her. Ahead of her, she saw nothing but long years of emptiness without him. Some things just were never ment to be, and this was one of them.
I will lay down my heart and I'll feel the power.
Without realizing it, she'd looked down at the ground, but he was slowly tilting her chin towards him, searching for eye contact that she was not willing to give. If only. Such common words to be used, yet she continued to think about them. If only things had been different. His hand cupped her cheek, his touch tender and his fingers soft against her fleash. Impulsively, her eyes closed for a moment, imagining that his gaze held the same adoration for her that she felt for him- if only for a short moment.
Cause I can't make you love me.
He took her hand and led her to his room, offering her the one thing she wanted most dearly, yet knowing he wouldn't be able to give himself to her completely. Would she? It didn't matter. He was leaving tomorrow, and it was likely that he wouldn't return. She wanted to ask him to stay, they did not need him as she did. But, even if he were to stay, she would not have him by her side. It was better if he were to leave, let her live in peace if only for a little time.
If you don't.
He kissed her gently, his lips only just brushing against hers, taking her softly in his arms and pulling her just that much closer to him. He took her to the bed where he lay her down upon the soft silken sheets. The sun had long since set as the two lay among the blankets. She was curled up in his arms, apparently asleap, but he could do nothing but look down at her sadly.
Morning will come, and I'll do what's right. Just give me 'til then, to give up this fight. And I will give up this fight.
Here in the dark, in these final hours, I will lay down my heart, and I'll feel the power.
'I love you.' He whispered, not sure if he really meant the words. Perhaps it would be better if she hadn't heard him, perhaps he shouldn't have said a word to the sleeping form that lay beside him. But you won't, no you won't. She felt him stir and silently leave the room. She wanted to tell him goodbye, but she did not move. She wanted to keep the memories happy.
'Cause I can't make you love me, if you don't.
I'm not sure if any of you who actually read these entries have noticed, but I'm a "little" obsessed with Lord of the Rings at the moment. Before you ask, yes, I'm another of those annoying Legolas fan-girls, but I was a fan while reading the books, then I saw the movies and thought Orlando Bloom did a wonderful job of portraying the character. Anyway, not that any of you care that much about this. As I was saying, for the next little while you'll probably be putting up with my obsession, unless you're smart enough to stop reading here.
In the darkness of the day, where all the shadows are but faint hints of something, hidden among the sunlight. Yes, that's when you need to watch yourself. When the heat of the summer sun is beating relentlessly down on you. It can make you delirious, make you say things you don't mean. It drives you insane. It takes your mind and melts it into mush, then bakes it slowly onto the burning cement sidewalks. There's no escaping the heat. That's why I prefer the freezing, deathly cold of winter. It's a far less painful way to die. Cold, lonely.
Two days left in the month. The summer is ending. Things that once were, are lost, where none now live to remember it- oops, sorry about that. I've been watching the Fellowship of the Ring, Extended Edition (again) and now I've got things stuck in my head. Anyway. School starts tomorrow. I don't know if this is a good thing. I've been looking forward to it, which isn't odd, but now I'm starting to remember what waking up early can be like- crappy. Oh, Drat! I hope my classes are in the afternoon… I can hope. Will tomorrow never come?
OH MY GOD!! I just saw Pirates of the Caribbean, and I've now changed my mind about Orlando Bloom. I used to think he only looked good as Legolas, but Will Turner was not too bad… Oh dear. I've turned into one of those obsessed freaks, haven't I? I hate the idea of being just like everybody else, it makes me so ordinary. Why, why, WHY do I have to think he's so darn good looking? Don't you just hate actors that do this too you? I need to get myself some help… yeah, like that is even remotely possible!
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