She sat in the corner. Little particles of gold dust floated around her. The hard wood floors were glowing with the light cast through the window. She was asleep, or so they thought. She was asleep, he was waking. Under her closed eyelids played a scene not many understand. She was fighting with him. His conciousness was overtaking hers. It was a tug of war between what was proper and who she wanted to be. Slowly, she was becoming a he.
Leaning against the musty books that were his childhood, he opened his eyes. They were different. He looked down at his hands expecting them to be new as well, but they were the same as when he had fallen asleep a she. But how could this be! He was a him but where was his real body! On the outside he was a she, but that was wrong! How could his mind have changed but not his body?
Despair spread from his soul and coursed through his veins. His heart was full and sore.
He knew it would burst, so he closed his eyes, and walked into the mirror and left only his shadow behind.
YOU ARE READING
Death is an Art
SpiritualitéI don't really understand what I have written and will write. It is abstract and definitely does not follow the story format. I just want to write scenes that create an image in your mind, like my favorite kinds of books. A kind of book to sit in a...
