|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The Art of EndingThe Art of Ending
He had forgotten what it was to move on, and that made this step all the more vital.
Clasping gloved hands at the small of his back, he surveyed his domain, prizing this desolate vantage he would not be imposed upon by anything save the alone, which paced the perimeter of conscious thought like some impatient cur. The alone, something with which he had always been at ease, something that now seemed more iniquitous, that had discovered its teeth and now wielded them to injurious effect. It gnawed at his very essence, though he suppressed it, plunged it to the nadir of his core, faced the world with a fierce false smile. Only now did he dare acknowledge his suffering, now as the west wind tensed teased the enfolded edges of his cloak. He stood immersed in the wheat, facing the sloped precipice that moved slumberous with the motion of the wind, racing
Chasing ArtChasing Art
He sat, partially reclined in a fashion exquisitely uncommoding, boots occupying the seat opposite him, golden feline eyes matching the motion of the candle's spastic light. In the interval of silence, he tapped an intermittent pen against pursed lips, counting the beats in an idle drifting mind. The pages set before him on the dark oak table in the dark oak room were almost feloniously empty. He had given up starting at them in favor of staring past them, in to them, delving into their essence to discern what words might best be inscribed there. For with every end there had to be a beginning, a phoenix sunk in eternal combustion, and the heady expectation of the book at his elbow fueled his absent vexation. It was an old comrade, that book, someone with whom he had labored, with whom he had battled, with whom he had triumphed. The paper before him was a stranger, but his eyes coveted as they swept across it again
Silvia and the VampireA hand wrapped around her mouth, and the immense strength behind that grip told her she had found her quarry. A voice rank with the stench of flesh hoarsely adjured her into the alley nearby, and she complied, stumbling, whimpering behind his sweating palm. Once released, she spun about to face him, trembling and wide-eyed.
"P-please, don't hurt me."
He grinned a slow smile that spread like disease across his waxen face.
"Oh, I plan to." She scanned him, taking in his abnormally tall stature, his black trousers, his red-lined jacket. His red, red eyes. His black hair, crew-cut in the style of the times.
"You are not a demon." He lifted his chin just slightly, viewed her in a different light. And then, as a sigh gusted from her lips, as she stripped her gloves away to reveal Furfur's seal, he took a wide bewildered step in retreat.
"Wait you "
"You are not a demon at all, you imposter. You almost tricked me." She found herself wearing a tight-lipped grim smile, a stiff triump
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More