The corridors are as usually, quietened during the early unlighted hours of the morning. Only those who have trouble sleeping are awake, and today it seems that sleep has hugged them lovely. Massive windows stand up on each side of the hall. The prohibited forest on one side and the bewitching lake thus mountains on the other. Pastoral color is a fitting term. Never-ending woodlands around the massive castle. Tall, scary trees protecting the towers. Inside them saplings, shadows wait for creatures. Umbra is the innermost and darkest part of a silhouette, where the light source is completely blocked by the occluding body. An example of an umbra is the shadow beyond a streetlight, the shadow in the deep vestibules which dawdle their way towards agility. It is the darkest part of the shadow cast by an eclipse.
Darkness comes as strong protective arms, holding them close until the promised dawn. Within it they are as children once more, safe in shields of duvet. Yet in this place so open to the skies, resting in the cricket's lullaby, their eyes are as bright as the constellations above; Their stardust atoms seeking the stars until they can bathe in the light of the sun. Mother earth knits the blackness as warm comforter to the settled soul, the one whom is at home in day shine and starshine all the same. The blackness becomes her blanket of protection, a place for her heart to beat quietly in steady rhythm. All that comes to her is the warmth the sun gave to the daytime and the sounds of the other animals who love the night. When the world has become a pencil drawing, a masterpiece on the easel of the creator, she waits for it to fade to black and arise anew. It is as if the nightfall were the curtains closing, and the dawn were their opening each day, the birds singing on cue with their beautiful serenade. While others sleep through the dying of the light, her task is to remain awake and witness it's rebirth, to see how the pencil sketch becomes the greatest of high-definition movies. But the blackness still is, and she calmly watches herself be erased, eyes open and seeing nothing at all, the only evidence of her being is the steady thump of her heart and the cool air in her lungs. Her brain is detached from actuality, broken up into two different wavelengths making me just as disunited from civilization as she is overwhelmed by it. She holds into the silence when it kicks in, allowing her thoughts to go grey and welcoming the surge of euphoria from these altered states. Her trapped limps are laid into a dreamy mattress.
What if the voices she hears are from God? Then she is Satan, and they will stay at war. She will strike him so with her ruby rod and impale him down into the earth's core. What if the voices she hears are from space? She is an alien with horns and a spot. No one believes these voices are her race. They do comment and understand her thoughts. But what if the voices she hears are man-made? Then she shall sail the seas like Columbus- Through the stormy nights where she greets afraid. She will find the land this man encompasses. Her mind is louder than a telepath's. She tells it to stay silent, and it will yell back. She tells her story; Some say she is gritty. How can she be brave? She lets them do this. Her mind dominates until she has none. Voices play games with her till it is no fun. They nibble parts of her brain, and they gnaw. Oh, voices, voices, why do you taunt her? It is amusing. She doesn't let others bully. She lets her mind become the enemy. There is a distinct, quiet suffering that plagues the air every which minute. Though out there, the world is rapidly expanding the smell of rot is the one that catches her nostril. As for what rots, she is not sure, perhaps the trouble lies within her.
Didyme's fingertips caress the tattered books sitting upon selves of the library. She walks through the doors of the library, and everything is in its familiar place on every dust covered shelf. Somehow the feeling of its untouched surfaces intrigues her. She opens the first book, and it breathes a hard nostalgia into her face. The sound of the porch swing is the first thing she hears, and the library is transformed into a summer's night. Aleandra feels the rush of her mother's touch and she wonders how it is possible to ever move on from that night. The next book she picks up has a strong spine and thick pages. Everyone knows this must mean it lacks a good story, but she wonders why that is so. Simply because it has been untouched? You long to be the unbent book on that splintered shelf with no crumbled pages or folded corners of someone's favorite things. The girl refused to open the next book she saw, and yes, she judged it by the cover. She supposes they judged her by the cover, and she could feel the weight of 'You are not what I thought you were.' It lives over her shoulders like an angry cloud, and she hopes to God there is a window to bring sunshine into this room.
Looking down the row of books you see one out of place, different from the rest. With a gentle hand she picks it up and feel it's weak pages between her fingers stained with tears. She knows that this book has been in the possession of many and even has a few tears the further into it she reads. She wonders if this is how she appears or if maybe the bold print she sees on every page speaks louder than the condition each corner is in. The next book Aleandra finds is a childhood memory, and it was always one she would love to relive. She missed the sound of her father's voice, but the memory was as good as the father who knew how to leave. The baggage may have been heavier than his own suitcases, but she forgets that all because she was back at her tenth birthday party, and the smile he had was one she would never forget. She closes this book lightly and grabs the one directly behind it. It's a fairytale, and the exact way she always imagined her life to be. Her eyes scan every page quickly but as she nears the end Didyme reads that walks in the park are not always perfect, in fact, they can often be filled with tears and the little girl in a dress is broken inside scratching her story into every page of this fictional disillusion.
The last book she grabs is one that should not have intrigued her. She sits on the only piece of furniture, besides the dusty shelves, a wooden chair in front of a fireplace. The story displays her and them, and the future she wishes they had. The book starts out at a wedding, but it isn't hers. In fact, the only thing sentimental about it is mama and baba's vows. The book ends with Didyme alone, her both parents gone, alongside with a simple of a future she wished they had. Unfair, isn't it? The wooden chair cracks as she moves to burn the book, and the flames help bring the story to life and every lie fills the walls.
The library becomes a labyrinth that will never release her. The chair is a mirror to your heart. She is alone with the writing on the walls and that is all that is left of her.
Didyme stays in front of the fireplace, a cup of coffee upon the table which she against leans, along with smallware. She taps her foot nervously at the ground, clearly finding an interest in the piece she reads out of the absorption it causes her. Why dare disturb her peace of mind? Has she ever wronged you... Or refused you what others too? Build in a very humble way, it's architecture redolent of Europe, plain and honest in structure. The vestibule at the entrance replete with old hardbound books. Dust covering the jackets. In their agony of human oblivion, every section has shelves under lock only to be open on permitted access. Located in the desert like an oasis, though the desert of readers not waters. But like any other oasis, it is useful, at most to the genuine users. There are books and books all over, windows only open after adjustment. One starts at the doorstep with classics, Indian, European, American and global classics. She opened war and peace, and the thrill of intellect and bliss of art began flowing into her guts like a river.
Nobility divine fills gaps of transcendence, soars to and from the throne heavenly. Exalts morals near the king of ascendance, patrolling the good, and sons of the seventy. A duty forgotten, replaced with dependence, on prayers rarely heard, and logic of a herd. Divinity is far in absence, man in attendance, the book is a third, and the teaching are blurred. Andalusian corruption supposedly erased: The creation rotten of Sariel, wanders gaily. The holy and fallen angel's doing embraced, by the clay beings caressing evil like a frailly. By God not, who from heaven him displaced. Yet, the legacy of the wrong stands humanly. A grace of sinfulness celestial and worldly. Religion is the poor's only ultimate truth, the rich's side hustle, and the rulers' tool; It is the loss of power that defiles the sooth, the one the poor has not, but does the fool. Robbers' servants, breadcrumbs consumers, toothless dogs, emaciated lost tramps... Little blind paws, vultures' puppets, tumors, and wretches they are, the upper hand's lambs. If only Raquel's judgements fall upon man, Rafael's punishment beautifies this existence, Gabriel's wrath make not all humans ane, and Michael saves us, the Sarahs, in assistance. In the heart deepened with old repression that mounts with plenitude of filtered feels, resides a universe yearning for expression in a meat clay who feeds on calories of meals. Man, in the genesis, in the light, in the dark, in prosperity, in turmoil, triumphed with vices. Vileness, abuse, wreckage is their sole mark, on this planet whose population is in slices.
Her physical peregrination of the hand led her to a vase of rosy wine. Its intellectual whiff surpassing all, the psalms of David and songs of songs. This was nothing but precious discovery; The shoulder of wisdom and love of God, the hero of Sufism and demystifier of heaven. For if lovers of wine and love are bound for hell, heaven would be quite empty. As life of a reader is similar to the life a writer, they both derive energy from solitude's power. She knows naught of the difference between the living and the dead. For here on Earth, though her heart is still beating, Didyme cannot help but feel so horribly miserable. And it may be death is not the end of life, only the decay of the body and not of the soul, but she should not know in this life. At the end of this miserable existence, they may be relieved by a euphoria. Still, at the end of a life so fruitful, they may be met with the burning pits of hell. And if she will not rot nor prosper all her miserable days would be meaningless. Every time she thinks she know heaven; A hell must break her spirits. And still, it is more dreadful to meet by a boring bleakness that hugs her existence like a child holds their mothers. To her knowledge, Didyme may already be dead, as no one recognizes the characteristics of death. Life to their knowledge could be their own form of hell, but it may also be the utopia. Here on this dying planet, they may live beautiful lives. On this dying planet, they will die. Their heartbeat is the ticking of a clock that will stop one day. Everything that is, will not be one day. The sun and the moon and all the treasures of this world will one day be nothing. All the people that are here now will not be. Everything must die, they will die all the same. Time is a force older than anyone knows, and it will never end. Their bodies end there, but where does their soul go. She knows naught of the difference between the living and the dead. Because her flesh is fresh, but her mind is old. But on the inside, she feels decay.
The cult of the ideal woman, silent era mignon passes the baton. A little diplomacy, a little electricity, and a waterfall of curls. She moves with the fayre; They see her idling on Fifth Avenue. Besotted men plant young, leafless trees upside-down. Roots in the air, simply because she wants it that way. A groundbreaking and to the broken oath, her name on the credits for the very first time. Screens, fans, and umbrella stands, or maybe lilies in a field of seclusion. She is a stardom, the eternal question.
One is the descendant of legends, making his own honest ones. It is a must to acknowledge the history's mistakes. The lessons from the past, do not only tell them who they are, but how they came to be. Historical Literary and Cultural Studies, it is a literal genre where the story takes place in the past. To Madam Ayneli's praise this must go. The Boarding school's philologist luckily did not keep her wonders inside of the square-like classroom. She was always the start for quiet children. Ancient Greek, Latin and poetry her loves are, the need to impact her listeners world it drove to insanity. Now all she does is paint her walls sanguine and lay on the floor, her knowledge nowhere to be transmitted. It is an ignominy to fathom such things of one's mentality, Didyme's insight remains painfully peculiar. Swept into a space too small to hold her.
Paradox is one other worldwide wonder. Guarding the library, club in her hand, her ever week from stubborn hunger. His sires never seen in this school, perhaps culture. He looked at her often in her pause for muse, why guard knowledge that she cannot ply? Lamentations are somber poems; Revelations are esoteric lies. Kings and Queens full of chauvinism, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are mere clichés. Her idea is: Mankind can fear God. They can honestly fear a true, divine form... Though, do they? Combined with many, humankind has lost its shame at last.
From male perspective, she does not like her mind, for its prurient content. However, to her sad chagrin it was the most unseen. An orphan she is, its mind leaves' were dog eared and use worn. She spied into the rumor about its tearing, it was a hot cake among nuns and priests. It was her eye opener? It transformed her from a village bumpkin to a modern reader of global literature. But she was thrilled, to her bone marrow when the main character drunk the blood, warm salty blood of their lover. At its mid was the red book marker.