Monday, December 13, 2010

The DHR part 1

part 1
The Depths of Hope and Revelry 
Sunshine and cold morning breezes greeted my face as November fifth rolled in on the ocean tides. The call of the gauls though distance was foreboding and unnerving like a terrible memory on the edge of my mind.
Cold coffee sloshed about in my blue flowered mug, all but forgotten by my cold and nearly numb fingers. The frozen sand crunching beneath my bare feet, white skin turning a sickening shade of blue from the cold.
I was standing in the middle of a field a hundred miles from the sea, not a gaul in sight, my memories were getting more vibrant by the day. The sane part of my mind was telling me to go home to the heat of the fire. But heat was the only reason to return, there was no one there except whisper my fluffy, grumpy, grey cat. Everyone was gone; Boston, Chicago, Richmond, Philadelphia, Seattle, Las Angeles, they had all gone off to important places to do important things. And me? I was here, doing nothing much, just living. Ten years ago this was my dream, now it’s more like a continuous nightmare I call my life.
After ten years of being surrounded by people, it had become and addiction, that seemed more of a necessity than an option and honestly I hated myself for it.
Not only was I born two hundred years to late,  but in the wrong place, and with the wrong people.
As I head home my hand made lace dress dress drags in the dried grass. The last roses are still clinging to the briars, and the herbs have felt the frost. My victorian cottage, which I had wished filled with the sounds of children was still just as silent as the day I bought it.
I’m only twenty seven but my life has dragged so as it seems a hundred years.
I have to remind myself on days like these, that the sky doesn’t fall and tomorrow is always a new day. I have more than enough for myself and plenty for others who need. My life is close to what I always wanted. I’m a published author, I make and sell beautiful things, all who know me love me and I have five little nieces and nephews to care for. And though I often feel destitute and alone like Jane Austen perhaps, I remind myself that life is good.
That morning I sat in my front room which looked out over the lawn and drive, writing a song I didn’t entirely understand, but as I sat down to my hand made pianoforte the song flowed and grew with dramatic buoyancy and desolation. As I close my eyes to this world, a loud ringing is sounding at the door. Pulled from my revelry I attend to the door. As I opened it wide my visitor seemed as surprised as I at what greeted his eyes. He was a young man of perhaps thirty dressed well with a very European look about him especially in the eyes and the shape of the mouth.

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