Night And Day
Black. The mysterious colour. Dark and sombre, but still so attractively beautiful. Stab… stab… stab… The stabbing looks and the whispering words stabbed her like needles. Almost so she didn't feel it, but with great enough force to make her bleed. She said nothing, was always quiet. It always stopped after a while, she just received it while it lasted. The teacher walked in, and then it stopped for a while. Until she had to answer something, then it was not only looks she got from Versace, Gucci, Dior and Prada in the room. Then they opened their mouths too, black holes in their faces. Some surrounded by red, purple, beige, whatever was fashion in Milan and Paris. She never gave the wrong answer, knew what she was supposed to, that wasn't why they opened their mouths. It was because she talked. They thought it was amusing. "Look, she speaks!" was the most common and most intelligent comment she got. Versace, Gucci, Dior and Prada thought it was very amusing, because they laughed. She normally just waited until they were quiet before she continued. Her voice was calm, soothing. The words came flowing out of her mouth as if they were carried on cushions of silk. Her finely edged eyes looked calmly ahead. She had an old woman's eyes, she'd been told, eyes filled with knowledge and wisdom.
Night-time was best. Then it was quiet and dark. It was black, magical and mystical. She sat in the windowsill and looked out, breathing in the fresh night air. She was the night; her raven-black hair was the velvety sky, her eyes the mysterious stars, her cheeks the finest clouds and her mouth the most beautiful moon. She let her mind wander while she sat there. Digging in her own head, but she never found the answer to what she sought. Why was everyone alike, so preoccupied with being copies? Everyone isn't everyone, everyone is one. One person, one individual, one style, one taste. Why wasn't it easy to just be who you were? She shrugged and shook her head lightly. "No one knows, yet everyone knows." she thought as her slim fingers entwined around her legs. "No one knows, yet everyone knows." She turned her eyes to the stars, drew lines between them, spelled words.
Versace, Gucci, Dior and Prada were quiet now, some had black streaks down their cheeks. That was not fashion in Milan and Paris, but they wore them either way. Maybe as a sign that the night was over. Gone, never to come again. The day was everything, around them always. They sat in disbelief, the words from the teacher cold and unfriendly. Echoed in Versace, Gucci, Dior and Prada's heads. Gone. "Why is it so difficult to be who we are? No one is everyone, everyone is one. One person, one individual, one style, one taste. A copy of everyone is just a copy, not themselves. Why is it so hard? No one knows, yet everyone knows." she'd said to them when the stabbing of the needles could no longer be received. Then she had walked away, and now? Gone. No more night, just day. "Buried on Friday." said the teacher, his eyes were grey. Clouded over with heavy rain clouds. Never again words carried on silk cushions and eyes filled with knowledge from the night's corner. The sunlight had penetrated the room and taken the dark corner. Everything was bright, and everything was day.
They came then on Friday, like her. Honoured her, only too late. Maybe the night would return if they were it. If they became the night. They looked at one another Versace, Gucci, Dior and Prada. Black. The mysterious colour. Dark and sombre, but still so attractively beautiful.
© Lady L., 2001.
Night-time was best. Then it was quiet and dark. It was black, magical and mystical. She sat in the windowsill and looked out, breathing in the fresh night air. She was the night; her raven-black hair was the velvety sky, her eyes the mysterious stars, her cheeks the finest clouds and her mouth the most beautiful moon. She let her mind wander while she sat there. Digging in her own head, but she never found the answer to what she sought. Why was everyone alike, so preoccupied with being copies? Everyone isn't everyone, everyone is one. One person, one individual, one style, one taste. Why wasn't it easy to just be who you were? She shrugged and shook her head lightly. "No one knows, yet everyone knows." she thought as her slim fingers entwined around her legs. "No one knows, yet everyone knows." She turned her eyes to the stars, drew lines between them, spelled words.
Versace, Gucci, Dior and Prada were quiet now, some had black streaks down their cheeks. That was not fashion in Milan and Paris, but they wore them either way. Maybe as a sign that the night was over. Gone, never to come again. The day was everything, around them always. They sat in disbelief, the words from the teacher cold and unfriendly. Echoed in Versace, Gucci, Dior and Prada's heads. Gone. "Why is it so difficult to be who we are? No one is everyone, everyone is one. One person, one individual, one style, one taste. A copy of everyone is just a copy, not themselves. Why is it so hard? No one knows, yet everyone knows." she'd said to them when the stabbing of the needles could no longer be received. Then she had walked away, and now? Gone. No more night, just day. "Buried on Friday." said the teacher, his eyes were grey. Clouded over with heavy rain clouds. Never again words carried on silk cushions and eyes filled with knowledge from the night's corner. The sunlight had penetrated the room and taken the dark corner. Everything was bright, and everything was day.
They came then on Friday, like her. Honoured her, only too late. Maybe the night would return if they were it. If they became the night. They looked at one another Versace, Gucci, Dior and Prada. Black. The mysterious colour. Dark and sombre, but still so attractively beautiful.
© Lady L., 2001.
posted by Lady Lovelylocks at 10:51 PM
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