Why, yes, I am back! I recently have returned to my love of writing. I hope to stay in this inspired state for a while.
Jules
____

In terms of conversation, her words were simply words that flew from a well-learned mouth. She spoke countless ribbons of circuitous and roundabout entrances and exits through doors in an endless hallway. Exquisite vocabulary gave an eloquence that I have heard nowhere else but in my thoughts. She gave those phrases an obvious meaning, and I took them a different way.
When she left me hanging after an observation that the sky was bluer than it had been in weeks, and the clouds had clearly chosen to migrate to the east, my mind raced to an interpretation of what she must have been attempting to say through a red herring of sorts. In other words, I always assumed she was being cryptic when she talked to me, for she used such luscious detail and commented on the things in which I saw the brightest and deepest symbols. Because of this assumption, I was also led to believe that there was no necessity tell her what I read through my ears, if she was the one who released the masqueraded philosophy into the quick traveling air.
But her face never was pensive the way that one would expect from a girl who was thought to be so profound. Her eyes never reached the intensity that says a machine is working inside that skull. In fact, aside from her erudite word choice, there was nothing but statement, even if it did beat around the bush endlessly. Looking back on it now, I realize that she did not mean for her words to be anything more than what entered the atmosphere as it left her lips.
I grew to love her in ways that consumed the innermost tissues of my brain. Every sound that she made only added kindling to the slow-burning fire which steadily charred my hesitation. And then one day I wanted to kiss her.
“I am inspired by each syllable that you form,” I told her, “and each time you speak I am blown away by your insite. Your way of comprehending that which I have never considered– it is far beyond what any other human has uttered in the history of our impossibly convenient universe. Yesterday I was walking for leisure, and saw among the branches a bird with plumage bright and patterned, staring lovestruck ahead of him at the beauty that was his idol, a bird whose feathers were a solid gray but whose song was of a thousand melodies combined. There was not a movement he could accomplish until long after she had shut her beak and the voice had ceased. He was decoding the intricate whirlwind of sound that had reached his eardrums and sent vibrations into his brain, striking him dumb and incapable of responding. He was rendered paralyzed by the enticing vocalizing of her thoughts, which needed attention to be truly read.”
At this time, she made the most straightforward sentences I have ever heard from her:
“You don’t get it at all– You are not in love with me but rather the image set into your mind by your unfounded interpretations. Have you any idea who I truly am? You have invented a fantastical goddess out of a young girl who narrates the world around her. All this time, I thought you were listening to me.”
All that time, I thought I knew her, but I did not know her at all. In actuality, I knew nothing of the girl whom I listened to more than my favorite record; and all that time spent decoding her, was spent decoding nothing at all.

One thought on ““Nothing At All” (a short story by Jules)

  • November 5, 2012 at 7:31 pm
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    Consider me inspired <3

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