WritingWritingWelcome to my writting space! Here you'll find both fiction and non fiction about whatever I feel like writting.
I am cold.
So cold I can feel it in my nose, in my arms, in my veins. It is a cold so bitter I can feel it in the deepest crevices of my heart. Parts of it no other feeling has ever reached before. This cold is a never ending brick wall with no hope of climbing over. The cold has one good quality. It keeps the bodies of those around me from decomposing. I am thankful for this, I am still not used to the stench they give while decomposing.
I look at my violin, the only reminder of my life before this putrid war. For a moment I think of breaking it, just a single fleeting moment. I could cut myself away from the life I once lived, the life I will never find again. I could make my dear violin just like me now. Shattered into pieces from forces we couldn’t control, by evils we could not fight. We would both be shattered by this war that had consumed my life ever since the day I was taken from my home. I could forget. I quickly squash that thought. Even though it hurts to think of, this violin is all I have left. I look around the still room and it suddenly hits me. I pull the violin up to my chest and start playing. It's a song I have not played in so long. Beethoven's violin concerto.
In the silence of this room my violin now sounds as loud as an engine. It screams out my sorrows to an empty audience. I become one with the bow gliding over the strings with my entire being. The notes of my violin echo outward, into the darkened sky. Each note is another life that I will never live full of emotion and love. Full of years I will never see. Children, grandchildren, and people that will never come to be. I grieve for the loss of those who I have yet to meet
I play my violin because I know I will never play again. The coldness in my heart retreats and in its place it leaves an empty, pitiful void, this is what's left of me. It suddenly hits me, who am I? What has this war done to that little boy I once called me? I am no longer him. He died the day I was taken from my home. I am a pale imitation of him, the boy who once saw the world in so many shades of greens, reds, and blues. Now it seems the world has lost all those colours. I look around the room trying to see a speck of colour. I only see grey. The greying skin of those fortunate enough to die, the grey bars of the long abandoned cells, and the grey of the sky shrouded in clouds. Where has the colour gone?
I know my story is soon coming to an end. I take solace in the fact that I will not be remembered. I for the first time in a while feel a bit of warmth in the void where my heart once pumped blood through my now paper thin veins. The notes of my violin scream outwards into the world, they fly like paintings in the air. I have now accepted that I will die. I can feel my legs weakening, and my body moving slower. I hit a wrong note and a dissonant screech is let out, I hit a second wrong note, then a third. My music, like my body, is slowly deteriorating.
I begin to fall and the world freezes. I am stuck in this moment of fall. I hear nothing but the rush of wind through my ears and the sound of my violin hitting the floor. This moment lasts years in my head. Without warning the world returns to itś normal speed and I hit the ground. My symphony is unfinished, a reflection of the life I am surrounded by. I look upward and see the sky one last time. It looks like a painting, no longer real. I am dying, I know this. I let myself be sad for a moment then stop. I refuse to let my last thoughts be of this world around me, of the horrors I have faced. I will rebel against it all, if only in my mind. I will fake it until I make it. I create a mantra for myself and repeat it. The world is a beautiful place, and I am no longer afraid to die. The world is a beautiful place, and I am no longer afraid to die. The world is a beautiful place, and I am no longer afraid to die.
The world is a beautiful pla-