Tied together. Strings under the guise of hobbies and relationships that held him up like a puppet. And as the years go by, we document these happy moments with picture frames and memory and the bittersweet feeling of knowing it will all be gone soon. All the strings.
He figured, though, even if they were to be cut, he would still be able to stand. Not unlike how he stood amongst the rubble in the museum. unsteady, on the verge of collapse. Everything was tied together in neat little knots.
Not him and the painting though, no. Him and the painting were intertwined. Almost meshed together. He felt as though if someone were to rip the painting away from him, it would be like ripping away his bones. the structure that kept him whole. He would just fall apart, and perhaps eventually rot away.
It was this he thought about as he inhaled the last of this weeks paycheck out of the small mint tin.
It was dark outside, almost 2am, but his curtains remained open. He liked to watch the cars drive past the large third floor apartment.
He liked to imagine their lives, assigning each a family, hobbies, friends, secrets. none of the secrets like his though. He wouldn't wish such a secret to bear on anyone. it weighed his shoulders and sagged his eyes, no, he wouldn't wish such a burden on an enemy.
He imagined sometimes, that perhaps one of those cars held someone he knew. perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps one of them held an old friend. someone he hadn't seen for many years. Perhaps the old friend had a new life. a wife, children maybe. friends. hobbies. secrets. secrets such as his. a secret to share. not to be bared alone.
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little strings | boreo
FanfictionHe laid across the mattress, still drunk and only partly awake. The morning was just starting to peek over the horizon and he could see the mist through the window. a sliver of light traced his skin, making it look pale and ever so slightly transluc...
