SONG OF THE SCENE: Blackmill - Lucid Truth
The stage has been set, she will allow her mask to embrace its role, and she will let herself be puppeteered for the audience. That is how Anna's life has always been; a mirage of emotions amidst a cosmic scale war that rages on inside her very soul. A flick of the wrist and it might all collapse unto itself but a thread of her sanity binds the fabric of her unconscious together. One might say it were a miracle that she can still be her true self for it is locked behind the event horizon of her mind. It had been her wish or her work perhaps, to bar the very essence that made her, for she had been too soft around the edges, too lumpy with emotions – too Anna. So she made the different aspects to her personality, not too different, not quite her, but new pieces she could adorn with each succession of new situations.
It's a day quite solemn in its effect, empty, dry and all too consuming of the thoughts; it brands the air with a bitter aftertaste of melancholy, and the senses with a lethargic, dull tone. To the untrained mind, this queer Friday would seem unlike other days; to the untrained mind with its monotonous moments, it would just be another start to the haze of drunkenness that would litter their already filled heart. To Anna, it is but a haven where her thoughts could scatter until she'd forget their beginning and end; instead she would find them interspersed in patterns that might baffle her, and entice her to pick up a pen and let the ink be the medium for her mind. She would let it be her conductor and her thoughts will then possess the most contradictory overture. The false vacuum seizes, and she gives a new perception to the person alight in her memory; they are bathed in the most delightful of metaphors, that if she were to change the hilt of her perspective an inch, she could almost feel them beside her. That is how she behaves, if someone catches the interest of her heart, the only way she can communicate is through paper; through her sanctuary, her ivory tower. It's because the script isn't there, and if she were to talk bare faced without the protection of a prerequisite role, she would be a mess of mismatched emotions armed with a platoon of unexpressed thoughts.
Anna's heart plummets at the sound of the doorbell. A wave of fear envelops her bones, but is subsided as she dawns the veil of indifference, to check if indeed it is someone she might know. She wonders for a few moments if it's a conception of her brain, if somehow Rebecca managed to slip off of the page and materialise herself at Anna's door but the thought is immediately evaporated in the atmosphere at another bell. Rebecca is an anomaly of sorts, but revered nonetheless. One might say she has legions of admirers but she is dark matter that cannot be solved by the highest of minds. Anna is lured inside her gravitational pull; only to be consumed bit by bit by the cataclysmic force of her personality.
∞
If my perfectionism and lack of inspiration hadn't gotten in the way, this was supposed to be chapter one of a novella I was working on. Obviously, it's unfinished but I'll upload a part related to it later. Also, I have a thing of naming my protagonists Anna and Rebecca (flashback to "nothing more fragile" haha shoot me)? There, now you have a snapshot of my psyche.
