CatchTheWind
Bland. It sounded like everything in my life. It was the word telling me what my life had been up to this point -- bland. Devoid of flavor. Meaningless and boring. Bland.
Time is an illusion. It tick tick ticks away and drains us of our youth. We use our watches and our clocks to measure it -- to see how long we have until it has taken everything from us and left us old and grey. Yes, it's just an illusion, but it's a very powerful one.
The event was not particularly eventful. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their frosted jewels swaying slightly in the air. Champagne abounded, and several fountains decorated the large hall. And yet, almost no one was speaking or laughing or doing anything other than staring at the small computers in their hands.
My perspective was skewed -- at least, that's what they told me. I saw things that others didn't, and that was somehow wrong. The things that had happened to me in the past month was all a delusion drawn up from something in my subconscious. It wasn't real. Nothing I knew was real. And to prove that I was beginning to become "sane" again, I had to keep repeating over and over that I was crazy -- that everything I knew was a lie. Yet, though I could say those words, my heart could not feel them. For I knew that what I experienced was true -- it was real, and these words were the lie.
A foreigner. That's what I am. A foreign girl in a foreign land. And yet now even the place I'm supposed to call "home" feels foreign. It's a strange word, isn't it? Indicating that a place or person is not familiar and that it is not where you really belong. But yet the place that is supposedly my "home" feels so much more foreign to me than this place does.
The statue stood at the corner of the small courtyard. It was a reminder -- a reminder of the war of the past. The plaque spoke of things such as "glory" and "honor." But anyone who knew the truth about what had happened in that war knew that those words had nothing to do with that war.
The central point of the matter was that one day it would all be over -- all the laughter and joy and hardships and trials. All the times no one was there for you and all the times that you felt loved. One day everything -- absolutely everything -- would come to an end.
She saw the proof of it on her hands -- the dirt and grit under her nails. It was a tell of what she had done that night -- a tale she could never tell anyone. She hurried to the sink to wash her hands, removing the last of the evidence. She thought back -- yes, everything had gone as planned. No evidence was left behind.