Did you Hear?

A story of sound and it's treacheries and beauty.
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Archia/950450/

Perfection

Perfection. What really is it? Perfection is having to ability to acclaim to the highest possible situation. But in this, does perfection really exist? It might be said that it does; that getting 100% on a test is perfection, or building a house to the safest standards is perfection. But really, that 100% could be surpassed, answers could be made better. But is the mark really the only important aspect of it, or could it mean nothing and the persons mind be the one deciding whether they feel they have perfected the test. By this there will always be a way for them to be happier and therefore they do not gain perfection. And with a house, the brick could be laid a different way, new technology is always coming around; perfection here is non-existent and near-perfection is short lived.

Everybody could always be more perfect, their cheeks could be that little more bigger, or their shoulders that little less broader. But then that raises the question of what defines perfection? Is it normality, which in its own right does not exist, for there are no rules to define what is normal or not. So then like the non-existence of normality there is also a non-existence of perfection.

Perfection is always growing, standards, wishes, are always increasing and so perfection is forever changing, creating it harder to aspire. As near-perfection is reached, perfection raises its level, making it impossible to reach.

Perfection is strived for, sought for; but it is all in vain. Perfection will never be accomplished, it is not something we can just come across, nor something we will obtain after years of senseless searching.

Perfection is non-existent, just like many things in our world today. So don’t stop to look at the things people could have, but look at the things they do have and know that for them that may be their near-perfection.

Catch a Daisy

Ask me to marry you and I’ll refuse, say that you love me and I’ll let you put a ring on my finger.

Brightest Eyes

When I was younger, a group of us would walk home from school. It was only a few blocks, down some streets. But on the way there was one house, with an old man and an apple tree. We’d always stop and he’d let us pick an apple. The sweetest, juiciest apple ever bitten. He was a nice old man. But then high school came, and I took a different route home. A year later I mussed the apple. So changed my way to walk by his house. Looking back now, I find at this age I would never have accepted an apple from him, Guilt is always expected before innocence. But I was young then, innocent myself. Three times a week I would pass his house, and he would always mile, nod at the tree. Sometimes comment on the weather. Two years later, when I cut down to twice a week, he began pointing out the best ones. He’d reach up and picked the brightest one, he’d call it, just like my eyes. We’d make a few minutes of conversation now. Another two years and he could no longer reach the brightest  apples. It’s the back, he’d say, like it wasn’t really a part of him. He'd point, that’s the one. And it always would be the sweetest and juiciest. I’d sit with him now, wand we’d talk. About anything really, this and that. I could sit there for an hour before I realised the time. I asked him once if children still passed on their way home. Kids are too cautious these days he sighed.

And now, after all that, I stand here, after coming for a week and finding no one. There’s a movers truck out front, man with red eyes shifting everyone around. Maybe he feels my gaze because he turns, and looks at me.

“You want an apple?” He nods towards the tree. It’s like a mimic almost, but too much effort to be right. Awkward really.

I look at the tree, the dull apples sitting there. “No thanks.” It wouldn’t be bright if he didn’t pick it. “Was it his back?” I asked, the question seeming dumb upon my lips.

He seemed confused. “There never was anything wrong with his back.”

“Oh.”

He had moved to stand before me, within reach. “It was his heart, just gave out finally.” He sniffed, I could tell he was sad. “Too much staring at pretty girls he always said. Never really made sense though, ain’t been able to stare at anything much for the past years.”

“Oh.” I said no more, and he slowly moved away. I went towards the apple tree, the fruit still seeming dull. I closed my eyes, reached up, picked an apple. It was the sweetest, juiciest apple. He was in that apple, smiling upon me finding his secret. It’s something you feel, he had once said. Eyes closed I could find the brightest apple. Except he hadn’t needs to close his eyes.

Pick Apart a Flower

 A person is like a flower. They start as a seed, then come into the world. They grow, until they bloom and shed colours and happiness on the world. Then they share their seeds and more flowers are born. All the while they are helped by the soil and sun. A flower cannot survive alone, just as a person cannot.

Chance

He lay against her sleeping bones, feeling the dirt caress his naked head. In his hand he could feel the small glass resting against his fingers, it smooth exterior judgement to what lay beneath. His escape. In his minds ecstasy of grief he saw her, golden air dancing along with the wind. The wind that even now embraced him, unlike her. He rose, coming to sit, facing the stone with the words that would never fade. Just like his love for her. A hand came across the stone and he felt the imprint that had long been etched into his mind. He swept his breath into his mind and brushed the bottle against his lips. It was empty. Confused he remained still, not knowing how this nothingness slipt down his throat. His escape had lain in there before.
“Excuse me.” He turned with a start, unsure, to find a woman standing before him. Brown hair flew across her face, shadows throwing themselves against her in the dark. “I’m lost, could you help me?”
In honest actions he rose, and a smile placed itself across his face. A smile long forgotten.
“Maybe some things aren’t meant to happen.” And the bottle lay to collect dirt on the ground.

Stealing Fate

It seems like only moments ago I was whisked away. Off into the reality of my past, the reality of my future. But not, the reality of my present. I left the present, stole it from my own grasp, gave it to someone else. A little boy it was, sitting on the street as they do, crying. They all cried. Why wouldn’t they when they knew they would never experience life like they we do. They would never get to slip into their life once they died. This was boy was one that would be born again, another life he would have to suffer on the many he had already bore. There was only one way to change it, to take this boy from his written fate. He needed a life. So I gave him mine. I took his hands in mine and smiled, he tried to protest, for my new fate would be worse than his. But I was firm, and grazingly I gave him my present. The present now he would live in, till his death came when he was let to wander the Otherlife. Where there was no bad. I would get no such sanctuary. Eternity would allow me to wander my past, and to wander to future I would have gained. It was for me to mourn what I had lost, to punish me for touching the book of fate. But I will not let myself mourn, when there is one less boy crying out there. That at least, is what I tell myself.

Stealing Fate