Unspoken Dreams and the Nature of Things
In a world of conflicting goals, wants, desires and opinions, war can only be expected. The use of brutal strength and knowledge to gain what we want is a primal avidity embedded deep within our hearts. Some welcome it with open arms and cruel smiles. Others are more reserved and logical, but the desire is there all the same, taunting and beckoning with an eagerness bordering on obsession. Violence is primal. The resistance against it, however, is not. For many, it is very difficult to go against instinct. How can it ever be realized that it's very achievable to go against primal instincts and love all others with their whole hearts, no matter the odds...when it's simply in their nature to fall beneath the weight of gravity before they can even conceive the dream of flying?
Sleep is the tea-making, secret-sharing, hysterically laughing best friend to a troubled mind, and Rena's mind was disturbingly troubled. Her life was a monotonous shade of bleak stone-gray with a smattering of splotches of deep blue and empty-void white every time she faced the outside world of motherless children and terribly impersonal, chalkboard teachers. However, the pallet changed as soon as she closed the bedroom door and temporarily closed the curtain to the unrealistic, almost comical representative performance of true life. Gray melted into warm browns and rich red-violets. Deep blue dispersed to show soft purples and dark greens. White grew into hazy yellows and mellow oranges. All she had to do was open a book. One in particular never failed to absorb her entire being into its contents, one with sturdy, leather binding and pages worn yellow from its many years of use. The book itself was a symbol of an old home that had long since been merely a fond memory of a dream. It was filled past the brim with long-forgotten fairy-tales--some of which she was sure no one else in the world knew about--giggling and teasing the mind with secret promises of enchantment and impossible habitations of peace that never rip, tear, or bend to the harsh, ever changing circumstances of even the seemingly most ordinary day. It may be just a dream, but at least it was something to hold on to when everything substantial breaks away like shattered clocks.
Before Rena succumbed to the heavy laden pressure pushing down her eyelids, she opened the worn, black leather cover and leafed through the frayed yellow pages to her favorite time-old tale of a strange boy named Ranulf.
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"The water crept back and forth on the pale, moonrock shore like swaying shadows of ghosts past. Ranulf the Nature Boy sat deathly still on an outcropping just a few paces away from the Reaper's Lake.
"Whispers of siren songs permeated the night air. They were close and coming fast. Ranulf barely had enough time to blink once more before he felt the uneasy sensation of Hades's feathers brush against the back of his neck. 'Why have you come here, little pidgeon?' came the ice-cold, sickly sweet voice of a particularly intimidating white eagle siren. 'You should know, Mudrriya, after all these years,' Ranulf said with the solemnity of a thousand eras of suffering. Mudrriya furrowed her eyebrows and gave him a contemptuous look. 'You are a very slow learner, little stupid one. Time and time again you ask for my help in this ridiculous war between idiots, and time and time again I answer, 'No'. And you know why? It's obvious, is it not?'
"Fueled with irrational anger, Ranulf approached the fearsome siren and bravely yet moronically grabbed a-hold of her forearm. 'It amazes me how selfish and irresponsible you can be after all that I did for you.' Mudrriya responded with violent rage and ripped Ranulf's hands off of her. 'Irresponsible, am I? Whose fault was it that this war was started in the first place? It certainly is of no concern to my people and me. You of all people should understand why I have to say no. We're still suffering from the last fiasco a foreigner forced upon us. Yes, I admit I was once charitable and 'responsible', but those days are long since past. Now I only look after my own, and I refuse to come to the aid of those who were too blind to see their own mistakes before it blew up in their faces. I am sorry, Ranulf, but I CANNOT help you this time.' And with that, she lifted her great, white wings and took flight like the last vestiges of a wandering spirit. Ranulf sank down on the rock as if he could merge into it and become just as solid, unfeeling and irrelevant. If only he was still the small, wild freedom seeker he used to be. Then he wouldn't have to worry about the multitudes of lives that are bound to be lost in this terrifyingly elongated conflict of simple pride and elaborate minds."
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Rena could vividly feel Ranulf's despair. She almost felt like crying--as if her tears could possibly reach him and comfort him in some way--but before long an obnoxiously loud and grating--yet deadlier than any other--voice yelled out, "Those lights better be off in the next ten seconds, or I'm coming up there and flaying you alive!" Desperately wanting to keep her skin on, Rena quckly pulled the cord on the lamp and layed down to rest with her beloved book pressed against her chest. That night she dreamed of floral fields, black hair, golden eyes and the comforting warmth of a body touching hers. There would be no fears of ordinary life this mystical, moonlit night; and that would be enough to last her till morning.
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"Flames as red as blood flows like fivers across the land. Earth flies in small particles looking in all the world like a swarm of black insects warding off any curious wanderers. The air reeks of rotting corpses, burning acids and forgotten memories of an innocent era that only ever existed in the past.
It's short for now, but I promise to post more soon...even if you don't want me to. ^-^ heehee By the way, Ranulf is a German name meaning "raven wolf". Mudrriya--pronounced (mood-rrih(rolled r ryhmes with rip)-yuh)--is an attempt I made at trying to spell a russian word in english. It means "wise".
