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Pages of Endless Sea
#WritcoStoryPrompt77
{Have you ever felt jealous of other couples? Have you ever felt being the third-wheel? If so, tell us your story.}
___________
___________
If my romantic idealism was a book, best believe it’s hundreds of pages long. scenes of classic romance doused in images of candlelight and good views clash with the unconventional youthful fiery passion of solely unhinged desire. Chapters of yearning good people, and the building of my honesty come to curate a world full of wonderous stretches of rolling hills of fire, against a star speckled night sky colored in unsure shades of blue and violet. Mountain tops sprinkled with the things I expose while the deep chasms of the oceans hide every darkest nook and cranny of what is kept secret. Yet the issue lies in this story’s characters.
You may think that many books need good characters who are mainly based in fiction, which is correct. Yet even weaving in some truth and realism can add layers of depth to their personality. In my novel, it feels as though all other participants are fake. Mannequins with too much charisma, comfort, and a need for a soul, chasing after my heart to fill their lack. The watercolor and digital scenery feels oddly liminal, even when full of these people I sculpt out of standards and carve out of reveries. Trapped inside a world with nothing but a pen, paper, and music to entertain me, I let the ink flow as I cross my “T”s and dot my “I”s with hearts instead of marks.
For now, I close my unnamed story of swooning emotion, and tune back into the reality I attempted escaping in the first place. Back to scrolling through mountains of the same old stories of celebrities dating, breaking up, and dating again. Seeing those around me experience romantic love in all different shades, wether that be rose pink or vermillion, except my glasses are rose tinted. Watching trees of romantic wisdom blossom and fruit into something more extravagant and luxurious than the act of love may ever will be, except it’s not on my property. The same ups and downs of a crush create waves in the endless sea that is my heart, almost deeper than my sense of self. And as I stand on the beach, looking out to the incoming storm of jealousy on the horizon, I feel my heart ache the same tune it did every time I saw love that wasn’t for me.
And maybe the rain isn’t so bad. But when the hail comes, not even the roof of delusion over my head can stop truth from tearing through the veneer tacked on love. The wind ripped the petals off the flowers, one by one. Clean up after the storm is never easy. Reeling my ego and mind back to the upper levels of conscious thought takes indescribable amounts of effort, as they’re rooted in the tar-like mud that is the imagination. Through the window, I observe trees struck down by lightning. I wander over to the corner store, avoiding snapped power lines that would otherwise be taking surges of logic to homes lining avenues. Light puffy clouds of doubt hang in a cornflower blue sky and the sun beats down on my back as i head back home, carrying the baggage which came from my own self pity.
And again, I open the book, flipping through the pages as it all seemed to blend together into a lavender haze of unrelated thoughts. The mannequins once again staring at me, chasing my character for the hearts we both desire.
__________
© Rynne
#writco #WritcoStoryPrompt #Love&love #love
{Have you ever felt jealous of other couples? Have you ever felt being the third-wheel? If so, tell us your story.}
___________
___________
If my romantic idealism was a book, best believe it’s hundreds of pages long. scenes of classic romance doused in images of candlelight and good views clash with the unconventional youthful fiery passion of solely unhinged desire. Chapters of yearning good people, and the building of my honesty come to curate a world full of wonderous stretches of rolling hills of fire, against a star speckled night sky colored in unsure shades of blue and violet. Mountain tops sprinkled with the things I expose while the deep chasms of the oceans hide every darkest nook and cranny of what is kept secret. Yet the issue lies in this story’s characters.
You may think that many books need good characters who are mainly based in fiction, which is correct. Yet even weaving in some truth and realism can add layers of depth to their personality. In my novel, it feels as though all other participants are fake. Mannequins with too much charisma, comfort, and a need for a soul, chasing after my heart to fill their lack. The watercolor and digital scenery feels oddly liminal, even when full of these people I sculpt out of standards and carve out of reveries. Trapped inside a world with nothing but a pen, paper, and music to entertain me, I let the ink flow as I cross my “T”s and dot my “I”s with hearts instead of marks.
For now, I close my unnamed story of swooning emotion, and tune back into the reality I attempted escaping in the first place. Back to scrolling through mountains of the same old stories of celebrities dating, breaking up, and dating again. Seeing those around me experience romantic love in all different shades, wether that be rose pink or vermillion, except my glasses are rose tinted. Watching trees of romantic wisdom blossom and fruit into something more extravagant and luxurious than the act of love may ever will be, except it’s not on my property. The same ups and downs of a crush create waves in the endless sea that is my heart, almost deeper than my sense of self. And as I stand on the beach, looking out to the incoming storm of jealousy on the horizon, I feel my heart ache the same tune it did every time I saw love that wasn’t for me.
And maybe the rain isn’t so bad. But when the hail comes, not even the roof of delusion over my head can stop truth from tearing through the veneer tacked on love. The wind ripped the petals off the flowers, one by one. Clean up after the storm is never easy. Reeling my ego and mind back to the upper levels of conscious thought takes indescribable amounts of effort, as they’re rooted in the tar-like mud that is the imagination. Through the window, I observe trees struck down by lightning. I wander over to the corner store, avoiding snapped power lines that would otherwise be taking surges of logic to homes lining avenues. Light puffy clouds of doubt hang in a cornflower blue sky and the sun beats down on my back as i head back home, carrying the baggage which came from my own self pity.
And again, I open the book, flipping through the pages as it all seemed to blend together into a lavender haze of unrelated thoughts. The mannequins once again staring at me, chasing my character for the hearts we both desire.
__________
© Rynne
#writco #WritcoStoryPrompt #Love&love #love
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