I am NEVER going to get anything done... ANGST ANGST ANGST

pyro_o · I am NEVER going to get anything done... ANGST ANGST ANGST

An experiment in symbolism and strange, choppy writing technique. =X

Also- do NOT ask me what the hell this story means. Because if you do, I will not provide you with an answer. Because I frankly DO NOT HAVE ONE and that is all.

Quella fiamma che m'accende

He's the boy standing alone in the cold, with lonely eyes and quiet soul that calls out to anybody willing to listen. The type of boy you'd like to give a piece of candy to, or even a hug- only to see his tiny body freeze up like a statue and then you'd see a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was looking at the rain clouds or a tree or an imaginary world.

The kind of child where you'd forget how he looked like the minute you turned away, because all you could remember is the empty look in his vibrant eyes and cold hands and little feet clad in nothing but thickly scarred skin.

To the passerby, nobody saw him- he made sure to stay out from the prying eyes of strangers; the streets scared him, but he stayed out anyways.

He liked testing his limits.

Despite his soft nature, you'd never expect him to fight with sharks or hunt dangerous reptiles- probably because he'd never done such things. Never stepped a foot out of his hometown, but never dared to go back home.

A dirty window reflected his image, and he promptly looked away. There was no need to stare at himself when others already stared. No use of such needless vanity when he had enough things to do- running away, for one.

But she would worry. She would worry, and then she would go looking for him

and he stopped.

He didn't go back home, because there was no home to go to and there would be people and he'd HATE it if there were. But there always were people everywhere anyways so stop being so scared and go home

It's cold.

He takes no notice of others staring now- a sight to see, if a little boy was chattering to himself of dark, dark things in a foreign language none understood but himself. And everything just spirals downwards and he doesn't see his tiny hands clenching and unclenching in a futile attempt to grasp his own identity.

Feathers in the wind.

He is the boy standing alone in the cold, with nobody to shield him from the pouring rains he was imagining. The type of boy you'd like to see playing with other children in preschool, if only he had a school to go to and a nice group of friends to play with and stop wishing for things you can't have

but by now it's too late.

His small, narrow feet take baby steps now, like a toddler trying to walk in the high heels that he sees his Mommy wear and his Daddy trying to see past the sparkly rhinestones embedded in the heels.. And he remembers.

He thinks it's better to wish than remember, but now it's too late too late too late

Now, his mind clears and it's back to the normal mayhem it was always in. His head swam with a miasma of nothing-like darkness, woven with red and white and all these scary colors he didn't like to see.

Blue's a nice color.. And so is yellow and green and

Stop.

Soffria quest'al maafflitae desolata
se go desseuna speranza di potersi consolar..

Rhea-sama

Wow... great images... o:

I see Hisoka, but for some reason.. the identity searching thing makes me think of Watari...

Anyways it's a really powerfully done piece with great imagry. And I love the stoplight thing at the end. Wonderfull way to end this fic...

I wish I knew what the French meant XD

pyro_o

*giggle*

it's Italian, dearest. XDD

I'm not telling who it is yet? XDD

Rhea-sama

pyro_o

XDD

<3