Post by ophélie apolline de la croix on Feb 3, 2012 18:51:14 GMT -6
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 1em; -moz-border-radius: 1em; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/2wom9du.png), width: 400px; height: 400px;] Sometimes I wish for falling, Wish for the release I’ll dance with myself, I drunk myself down, Found people to love, Left people to drown, I'm not scared to jump, I'm not scared to fall, there was nowhere to land, I wouldn't be scared at all -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Everyone here knew who she was. Not in the literal sense, of course, most couldn’t even put a name to her face. But everyone knew that she was the young and pretty mademoiselle who came in every Wednesday evening at seven thirty every week like clockwork. Rarely was she late, but she left at varying times depending on if her cellphone rang while she was there. Though they preferred to have them turned off in the museum, there was something about her that kept most everyone away from her, a presence of sorts that warned them off her, because, while she looked like an innocent child, the way she carried herself was sophisticated and reserved, intimidating them to no end. They never spoke to her either, noting that the way she scrutinized the paintings and even glared at them wasn’t entirely normal. She obviously wasn’t a tourist, they’d figured that out after she had came consistently for a few weeks, nor was she a transfer student from another country; the few times she spoke to get her ticket and when she’d asked questions when exhibits were moved around, her French had been crystal clear, if not with an old, sultry feel to it that the modern language didn’t possess. Ophelia wasn’t sure if she preferred to wander the museum alone or not. Granted, she probably would be horrible company if she was with someone. This was her time, time when she didn’t have to deal with the goings on of the world or anything outside this particular building. In her nearly seven-hundred years, Ophelia had certainly seen her share of the outside world, and while she could appreciate the beauty of it, there was nothing more magnificent and haunting than what was contained within these walls. She loved the museum, and yet she abhorred it all the same. The times immortalized here were something she’d live to, and she’d live past them, watch them deteriorate regardless of how carefully they were treated and sealed up. She’d seen their conception and she’d see their destruction. She had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she’d outlive most of the world she knew at any given moment. Everything had an ending, and she had seen enough births and deaths to know that her own would come, but not soon enough. Seven hundred years was a very long time to spend staring at paintings you would survive past, despite the fact that they were inanimate objects. They were mocking her, laughing at her behind her back and conspiring against her, those works of art, she knew they were. Maybe not in the literal sense, but if their creators had been aware of her existence, she was sure that it was their intention. To be certain of nothing, not even your own inevitable death was impossible for Ophelia to cope with, and she was, in a basic sense of the word, insane, in her own way. She wasn’t dangerous or anything of the sort, but for all intents and purposes, she was certifiably crazy, at least in her eyes. Certainly someone so conflicted could never function properly, and she knew she didn’t. Everything was a struggle to her, internally of course since she blatantly refused to show any outside weakness, and the damned woman everyone came to stare at was just smirking at her as if the painting could tell exactly what she was thinking. © melly welly from caution 2.0 | LYRICS BY FLORENCE & THE MACHINE OUTFIT: HERE | --- WORDS | NOTES: THEY GO HERE |
