Post by Lucille Bluth on Jan 15, 2007 15:43:08 GMT -5
ahaha, idk how i wrote this. i was taking a walk with my grandma and when i was thinking "i wish i lived somewhere else" this story just kinda ended up in my head. no particular fandom.
“Memories,” she murmured, her fingertips touching letters of the old books on the shelves.
“What about them?” he asked, keeping his eyes down on his book with a glass of brandy in his hand.
There was a few minutes of silence and she pulled a book from the shelf. Running her fingers overs the letters as if she were a blind girl trying to read braille. The Art of War was in golden letters against the leather burgundy covering of the book. “Sometimes,” she started again, “...sometimes, they don't feel like my own. It feels like they belong to someone else, that I have put myself in their shoes.”
He looked up at her from his book, her back still turned to him. The book lay in her hands, she could not take her eyes off it as if it was once a possession she had loved. “Memories can feel like that sometimes.”
Her whole body turned around to face him. The strands of her blond hair seemed to sway to the left and then go back into place. “Then, are we pretending we are someone we really aren't? Are we disillusioning ourselves to believe we once had a childhood where we ran free? If so, then what's the point of having memories in the first place?”
“It gives you a future to look forward too.”
Then, they said nothing. The only sounds was the grandfather clocking ticking and the ice in his brandy delicately touching the glass as he took another sip. She walked over to him, placed the book on the nightstand and walked out of the room. He reached over and grabbed the book, turning it over and over many times. He opened the book to see a bunch of words meshed up on the front page then looked up at the door in which the woman walked though. Was she even real? Or a memory this man once had?
Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.
“Memories,” she murmured, her fingertips touching letters of the old books on the shelves.
“What about them?” he asked, keeping his eyes down on his book with a glass of brandy in his hand.
There was a few minutes of silence and she pulled a book from the shelf. Running her fingers overs the letters as if she were a blind girl trying to read braille. The Art of War was in golden letters against the leather burgundy covering of the book. “Sometimes,” she started again, “...sometimes, they don't feel like my own. It feels like they belong to someone else, that I have put myself in their shoes.”
He looked up at her from his book, her back still turned to him. The book lay in her hands, she could not take her eyes off it as if it was once a possession she had loved. “Memories can feel like that sometimes.”
Her whole body turned around to face him. The strands of her blond hair seemed to sway to the left and then go back into place. “Then, are we pretending we are someone we really aren't? Are we disillusioning ourselves to believe we once had a childhood where we ran free? If so, then what's the point of having memories in the first place?”
“It gives you a future to look forward too.”
Then, they said nothing. The only sounds was the grandfather clocking ticking and the ice in his brandy delicately touching the glass as he took another sip. She walked over to him, placed the book on the nightstand and walked out of the room. He reached over and grabbed the book, turning it over and over many times. He opened the book to see a bunch of words meshed up on the front page then looked up at the door in which the woman walked though. Was she even real? Or a memory this man once had?
Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.