icefaerie10111
Instrumental silence is absurdly ironic but it was what I experienced that evening as I boarded the train to Brideshore. The sky seemed to hum a dying evening song that I could neither hear nor feel as my own emotional bridge to my new life.
The pattern of the mosaic in the library was amazing; it was unlike anything I had seen in all of the Old Country. The mosaic seemed to form mountains and valleys with an insurmountable array of color that washed across the library wall.
The gourmet food of the city smelled wonderful. The food was of the sort Ruth had never tasted in all the Old Country. There were pastries and truffles and all sorts of exotic dishes that required ingredients from the farthest of the Southern provinces.
Weaving through the crowed, it is easy to lose myself. What is this paradox of existence, where we are to be unique down to the genotype of our genetic core, yet expected to conform to the status quo?