So I was completely horrified by the fact that my last story on here was analyzed to be the written work of Stephenie Meyer. Naturally, I had to write something up and analyze it again for my own sanity and peace of mind.
Read more
I wanted to write today, so I did, and then I made a blog for it. I have a blog for everything now.
But then Lazzy went to bed and I didn’t want to write anymore. I have discovered that this is why I don’t write: It’s lonely. Not talking to someone while you’re writing sucks. Which is odd because you can’t concentrate when you’re talking to someone.
And once I stop writing something I’ll hardly ever go back to it so I kind of just wrapped it up and left it there. I might come back to it but for now it’s done, so here it is.
In the endless hours of the day and night, every second spent stagnant and in place, Laurent reflects. There is little else to do. He will sit quietly, on the settee by the window, provided the sun is away. He thinks of many different things on many different occasions. He even thinks about thinking. About when he’ll get tired of thinking, or about when he’ll run out of thoughts to think.
Now, he sits, one leg propped over the other in the chair against the wall. His knee is feeling particularly tender today, and he’s opted to remain in his bedroom rather than make the climb down the staircase to the sitting area. Less than casual, he is as he always is. Simple black slacks and an off-white dress shirt, shined but scuffed black oxfords tied tightly over black socks. His top-hat, his favorite top-hat, sits carefully on the hat rack by the door while his collection of bowties remains undisturbed. Each blazer keeps to the closet. Today is a slow day for Laurent Chevalier, and though they are few and far between he feels as though he has far too many of them. His burgundy hair is mussed, fresh from bed, and thrown back in a tangled ponytail. What remains hangs in his face but it is far from his wandering mind. Though he is unseeing, his glasses sit perched upon his nose. His violet eyes are trained far away, gazing through the wall, through the hallways, through the building itself and away into space.
It is evening, twilight, the sun nestled behind the rolling hills beyond his window. The sky is cast in pink and orange, a sherbet sunset. The thin fingers in his lap unlace, one hand traveling thoughtlessly to his knee to rub at the ache. His mind follows the hand and meets the knee, brought back into the ring of consciousness he had left, the waters ripping, the dust shaken away. His eyelids flutter, blinking away the drying air, and he clears his throat. Like waking up from a nap, each time he finds himself thinking. Something will stir him and he will awaken, bones and joints stiff from the hours of motionlessness. To his horror, when he considers what he’s been doing, he reminds himself of a corpse. He wonders in passing if he had even remembered to breathe.
