Status: Sort of a trial run.
Pensive Time
1
4:00 p.m.
Dreaded conversations.
She stifled her movements as cool thickening reds of lava churned, fusing together; words reiterated themselves. Words she already knew. Words that not only sliced through deafening silence, but her as well. Her diminutive stature shrank back into suede cushions, and the rumbling engine that once enticed peaceful darkness now threatened to swallow her whole. Oh, what she would give for it to do so. Words lost their way, and all she could do was give timid “mm’s,” hoping she would offend no further.
4:05.
Knowing regrets.
Sincere words reached her ears, yet she dreaded what was to come. The glance she threw towards his glaring reflection was hesitant, but it was enough. Their eyes met, and his glare bestowed an intensity only those of pensive natures would understand. His harangue continued; as did the gnawing of her cheek. She allowed herself a dry snort. At this rate, she would draw blood. She knew her standing; knew where her incompetence would lead, so this was expected. Still, poisonous thoughts swarmed, each taunting her fruitless efforts.
4:10.
Self measures.
Buried contriteness surfaced, but in that time she withdrew to her escape, where havoc’s misunderstood beauty stormed above; swirling reds caressing the lone entity they allowed in their presence. They brought her into the eye’s protection, the motion giving her a familiar sense of clarity which she employed with ease. Pensiveness and Astuteness each took a hand, and she allowed a grateful glance break her posture, mirrored by her subtle shift to avoid the aggravating strap across her body. Chin up and an unwavering gaze; she once again considered her situation, blocking irrelevant thoughts. She relished those instances, as she felt free to wallow in solipsistic dwellings . Circumstance did she adopt such behaviour, saving it for tumultuous times, when reflective musings were deemed necessary. There, in that constructed escape, she mulled, devoid of emotions.
4:15.
Detached acceptance.
She removed herself. She knew it was of her own fault; that actions have repercussions and so did failures, of which she had many. Her eyes glazed over; senses decreasing in favour of cathexis. She appraised each thought that presented itself with a discerning resolve, and practised ease aided in isolating the present. How ironic. Her attachment to her ability of detachment had let her cope with the intermittent fragility of her mind. Once again, self-dependence proved valuable. Detachment allowed for the disregard of impertinent thoughts, which in turn allowed for acceptance of the unchangeable; especially of her regret filled past.
4:20.
Stringing responsibilities.
Her sister. Her parents. Their legacy. Her future. Their future. She couldn’t afford to commit such shortcomings. She was the lone heir. From humble beginnings, she knew her role lest the sacrifices of those before be lain to waste. She lived without the luxury of second chances, and with a child that would be her own, she could not falter. Aghast, her eyes bulged, pupils dilating as she thought of her listed wishes. Aghast, she recounted the moments she’d succumbed to the sins of greed and complacency. Her life was not hers alone; she owed it to those of the past and the present. Deeper, slower breaths. She held the strings of many past, and her duty was to use theirs to strengthen hers so that they may live through her the life they dreamt. She was to provide the strands for her child, so that her child may live her life free to fly.
4:25.
Sudden realizations.
She was no longer a child. Each minute her contemplative nature held control, she gained access to golden frost; as her calm sageness overtook her, no longer was she restrained. She could peer beyond her confinements, suede transitioning from suffocating to comforting. Breathe. Trees. Cars. Rain. Clouds. People. So much could be connected; so much could be anticipated. She could not change the past, but there were things for her to do. She could only rely on herself, and she knew what she was capable of. Pondering, she realized she had unfinished stories that needed weaving with her own string; burnout was not a delicacy she could even consider stomaching.
4:30.
Steeled resolve.
She straightened her posture, footing sure on rubber mats. Jaw set, her movements stifled again, but with a new aura. The cool reds, laced with chaos still churned, but words were drawing to a close. They rang true, but no longer pierced, neither wounds new nor old. Words drew to a close, and silence rang, not by the deafening pressure, but by a declaration of tenacity. It resonated past the cage of glass and metal and out into winds of red. The winds that served Pensiveness and Astuteness; whom will always extend their hands to their Queen. She would weave the strings she held, as she had realized she not only owed it to herself the throne from where she perched, but to those that had trusted she would succeed. Idleness was not an option. What she could do and what she should; what she planned to do and what she pursued, she would.
4:00 pm.
Recounting admittance.
I knew that girl. She would act what was expected of her. Carefree laughs, wings that soared, an affinity for the sun, she acted to hide. She hid the depths of herself, and would continue to do so; but in the thirty minutes she revealed to us, she showed the doubts that could plague even the best, much less a girl that had yet prove herself worthy. That girl had been through trying times, and it was there, in that small red car with the suede cushions, that she showed us the inner thoughts of one that knew the disappointment that had been caused. That girl had wanted to show that even those with the skip in their steps could be surrounded by unseen storms. I chose that girl’s moment to share. Why? That girl, was me.
Now, once more, we’re back to 4:00 pm. I know, my thoughts will return again, with the time of reflection repeating its everlasting trip.
When I return to that small red car with the suede cushions, I will still be holding strings to weave, and I will detach myself again. But again, I will know, I will reflect, and I will accept.
Dreaded conversations.
She stifled her movements as cool thickening reds of lava churned, fusing together; words reiterated themselves. Words she already knew. Words that not only sliced through deafening silence, but her as well. Her diminutive stature shrank back into suede cushions, and the rumbling engine that once enticed peaceful darkness now threatened to swallow her whole. Oh, what she would give for it to do so. Words lost their way, and all she could do was give timid “mm’s,” hoping she would offend no further.
4:05.
Knowing regrets.
Sincere words reached her ears, yet she dreaded what was to come. The glance she threw towards his glaring reflection was hesitant, but it was enough. Their eyes met, and his glare bestowed an intensity only those of pensive natures would understand. His harangue continued; as did the gnawing of her cheek. She allowed herself a dry snort. At this rate, she would draw blood. She knew her standing; knew where her incompetence would lead, so this was expected. Still, poisonous thoughts swarmed, each taunting her fruitless efforts.
4:10.
Self measures.
Buried contriteness surfaced, but in that time she withdrew to her escape, where havoc’s misunderstood beauty stormed above; swirling reds caressing the lone entity they allowed in their presence. They brought her into the eye’s protection, the motion giving her a familiar sense of clarity which she employed with ease. Pensiveness and Astuteness each took a hand, and she allowed a grateful glance break her posture, mirrored by her subtle shift to avoid the aggravating strap across her body. Chin up and an unwavering gaze; she once again considered her situation, blocking irrelevant thoughts. She relished those instances, as she felt free to wallow in solipsistic dwellings . Circumstance did she adopt such behaviour, saving it for tumultuous times, when reflective musings were deemed necessary. There, in that constructed escape, she mulled, devoid of emotions.
4:15.
Detached acceptance.
She removed herself. She knew it was of her own fault; that actions have repercussions and so did failures, of which she had many. Her eyes glazed over; senses decreasing in favour of cathexis. She appraised each thought that presented itself with a discerning resolve, and practised ease aided in isolating the present. How ironic. Her attachment to her ability of detachment had let her cope with the intermittent fragility of her mind. Once again, self-dependence proved valuable. Detachment allowed for the disregard of impertinent thoughts, which in turn allowed for acceptance of the unchangeable; especially of her regret filled past.
4:20.
Stringing responsibilities.
Her sister. Her parents. Their legacy. Her future. Their future. She couldn’t afford to commit such shortcomings. She was the lone heir. From humble beginnings, she knew her role lest the sacrifices of those before be lain to waste. She lived without the luxury of second chances, and with a child that would be her own, she could not falter. Aghast, her eyes bulged, pupils dilating as she thought of her listed wishes. Aghast, she recounted the moments she’d succumbed to the sins of greed and complacency. Her life was not hers alone; she owed it to those of the past and the present. Deeper, slower breaths. She held the strings of many past, and her duty was to use theirs to strengthen hers so that they may live through her the life they dreamt. She was to provide the strands for her child, so that her child may live her life free to fly.
4:25.
Sudden realizations.
She was no longer a child. Each minute her contemplative nature held control, she gained access to golden frost; as her calm sageness overtook her, no longer was she restrained. She could peer beyond her confinements, suede transitioning from suffocating to comforting. Breathe. Trees. Cars. Rain. Clouds. People. So much could be connected; so much could be anticipated. She could not change the past, but there were things for her to do. She could only rely on herself, and she knew what she was capable of. Pondering, she realized she had unfinished stories that needed weaving with her own string; burnout was not a delicacy she could even consider stomaching.
4:30.
Steeled resolve.
She straightened her posture, footing sure on rubber mats. Jaw set, her movements stifled again, but with a new aura. The cool reds, laced with chaos still churned, but words were drawing to a close. They rang true, but no longer pierced, neither wounds new nor old. Words drew to a close, and silence rang, not by the deafening pressure, but by a declaration of tenacity. It resonated past the cage of glass and metal and out into winds of red. The winds that served Pensiveness and Astuteness; whom will always extend their hands to their Queen. She would weave the strings she held, as she had realized she not only owed it to herself the throne from where she perched, but to those that had trusted she would succeed. Idleness was not an option. What she could do and what she should; what she planned to do and what she pursued, she would.
4:00 pm.
Recounting admittance.
I knew that girl. She would act what was expected of her. Carefree laughs, wings that soared, an affinity for the sun, she acted to hide. She hid the depths of herself, and would continue to do so; but in the thirty minutes she revealed to us, she showed the doubts that could plague even the best, much less a girl that had yet prove herself worthy. That girl had been through trying times, and it was there, in that small red car with the suede cushions, that she showed us the inner thoughts of one that knew the disappointment that had been caused. That girl had wanted to show that even those with the skip in their steps could be surrounded by unseen storms. I chose that girl’s moment to share. Why? That girl, was me.
Now, once more, we’re back to 4:00 pm. I know, my thoughts will return again, with the time of reflection repeating its everlasting trip.
When I return to that small red car with the suede cushions, I will still be holding strings to weave, and I will detach myself again. But again, I will know, I will reflect, and I will accept.