Still fiction, but I found this playlist that was on a dark academia theme, and I kind of got ideas from it. Still kind of sad, but not everything about December is happy. Or maybe I’m just too enthralled by this playlist.
Also, I'm waiting for the day I get my research motivation back because I have a list of things I want to discuss yet I can't find the motivation to get started on them.
The winter air seemed chillier these days than ever. It was something I thought to myself as I watched the delicate flakes kiss the earth’s surface. Had it not been for the recent events, I would have joined them in their dance. I would have twirled and glided as if I were one with these flakes yet I couldn’t bring myself to. Not anymore.
I stare down at the sketch pad on my lap. Still empty and partially ruined from the melting snow that had made the ink bleed into the pages. Yes, the black, blue, and red seemed to have melded together in such a way that even I couldn’t decipher it anymore. Much like my thoughts that seemed to be filled with the very colors on this pad.
I browsed through the ruined papers once more, like I’ve done so with much enthusiasm weeks ago. Yet this time, each turn of the page only leaves me with bitterness.
On each page, I could still faintly make out your image. The graphite I used for the initial sketches had still not faded. Such as my last memory of you before you left. You were still smiling as I saw you out of the house. Dressed sharply in your business suit and your slightly crooked tie that I always had to fix.
Yes, I should have stopped you from taking that overseas business trip. I should have checked when I heard that faint whisper in my ear. I should have recognized whose voice that was right from the start instead of spending the night listening to the directions it gave my hands and body. I should not have put my sketch pad right beside our bed, nor the bottles of ink next to it, that night.
The whispers of late nights were something I always had to live with yet this last one felt the most chilling… yet, so tender at the same time. The indescribable feeling of something being so foreign, yet so familiar at the same time. That was what that night was to me. And that was what the image came out to be once I had taken a step back to see what my hands had created.
Denial immediately took over until I heard the phone ring.
“Hello, is this Mrs. X? I regret to inform you that the train your husband was in got derailed and crashed.”
The train crashed? That was the only thing that registered in my head.
I waited for days. Hoping for his return. And he did. As an urn and as ashes that now sit in his favorite spot in the living room.
While I sit outside, at the very park we met. And I still recall the first few conversations we had when you found out I was an artist.
“I know you’re an artist because your works inspire me. They make it so hard for me to take my eyes off of the pieces you make.” It was what you said before asking if you could take a seat beside me.
And I jokingly answered back “Then maybe you’re a piece of art? Because I find it so hard to take my eyes off of you.”
Yet now I sit alone, reliving the memories while waiting for the frost to take me, like how I wanted it to before you came into my world.
I hope you could found motivation and be happy again because I was also sad about what you've written.