I Am a Dreamer and a Thinker
You opened this door. Why are you here? Must be your choice. There is no such thing as chance. Survey the room. Since you are here. It is expansive. Large glass windows. Billowy white sheers. The wind blows in lifting the sheers, fluffing them. The room is overcast. The skies outside grey with voluminous, inky- black- grey clouds rushing and rolling. No sun today.
There are packed boxes everywhere. No noise. In the middle of the room stands the stone angel. Shards of broken glass litter the floor around her. Jagged. Shiny. Deadly. Behold her splendour.
Who created her? The sculptor is long gone. Does he ever think of her? Do the memories haunt him? Did he love her? Unanswered questions that echo in this room...Did she help him fashion her? Was she willing? Swirling questions...in an empty room...Echoes....Echoes...Do you hear them?
This room is faintly familiar....Let me think. Yes. I remember now. This was where music box dancer once lived. Remember her? The radiant spirit who danced with such abandon, such joy, such freedom, such beauty...If you close your eyes, you may actually see her pirouetting, spinning, twirling...You can hear her laugh. It sounds like gentle rain on a roof. It soothes. It uplifts. Perhaps you cannot hear it. I am not sure. But it is clear that music box dancer has not been here for some time. Some say she is long gone and that she no longer exists. But I know she does. I hear the rustlings of her in her music box. Faintly. Distantly. Far, far away...
The stone angel is most exquisite. Did you run your fingers along her lines? Did you wonder what will become of her now? What did you feel if anything at all? She cannot remain in this room untouched, unfeeling forever. Even the stone angel knows this....As you turn and reach the door, did you hear a slight sound? You turn. You look at the stone angel. Did you see a tear on her face? Was it just the reflection of some fragment of light on her fine face? Was it just your imagination? It is unclear. And you turn and walk away through the door, shutting it softly, gently leaving the stone angel silent and alone.
Thank you.
There are packed boxes everywhere. No noise. In the middle of the room stands the stone angel. Shards of broken glass litter the floor around her. Jagged. Shiny. Deadly. Behold her splendour.
Who created her? The sculptor is long gone. Does he ever think of her? Do the memories haunt him? Did he love her? Unanswered questions that echo in this room...Did she help him fashion her? Was she willing? Swirling questions...in an empty room...Echoes....Echoes...Do you hear them?
This room is faintly familiar....Let me think. Yes. I remember now. This was where music box dancer once lived. Remember her? The radiant spirit who danced with such abandon, such joy, such freedom, such beauty...If you close your eyes, you may actually see her pirouetting, spinning, twirling...You can hear her laugh. It sounds like gentle rain on a roof. It soothes. It uplifts. Perhaps you cannot hear it. I am not sure. But it is clear that music box dancer has not been here for some time. Some say she is long gone and that she no longer exists. But I know she does. I hear the rustlings of her in her music box. Faintly. Distantly. Far, far away...
The stone angel is most exquisite. Did you run your fingers along her lines? Did you wonder what will become of her now? What did you feel if anything at all? She cannot remain in this room untouched, unfeeling forever. Even the stone angel knows this....As you turn and reach the door, did you hear a slight sound? You turn. You look at the stone angel. Did you see a tear on her face? Was it just the reflection of some fragment of light on her fine face? Was it just your imagination? It is unclear. And you turn and walk away through the door, shutting it softly, gently leaving the stone angel silent and alone.
Thank you.
By:
2011A
Age:
51-55
,
Female
