Oh look at how she listens
She says nothing of what she thinks
She just goes stumbling through her memories..
And she thinks... How did I come to this
I dreamed myself thousand times around the world
But I can't get out of this place
There's an emptiness inside her
And she'd do anything to fill it in
and it breaks her heart
- Grey Street, Dave Matthews Band
She had woken up restless. The second morning that she opened her eyes, consciousness slipping over her like a slow, rolling fog. Once she was awake, the unease settled in. The seemingly infinite unease that drove her to distraction. Her daily morning rides, aching as her body was, through the countryside did little to appease this fretfulness that drew her into herself. As if she was surrounded by clouded glass in her mind – unable to see past what had settled in and occupied every thought. The creeping sensation of both watching and being watched. Of a slim film of melancholy that clung to her senses like a miasma.
Her usual refuge of writing did nothing towards relieving her worry. She would pace on the library floorboards; books left open and unstudied, letters half written. Food held no taste for her, and the solemn realization that her life had shifted overtook her. A tilting of the axis. When the sun did not rise and set in quite the same way as it did before. That she could not summon up the will to engage or care did not seem to trouble her. That every joy and fascination that she held had become a dull noise in the background of her mind had somehow become a matter of form. All wants and desires had been consumed by this sense of bereft loss. And she was rudderless in all of it, wading through deep waters in search of a riverbank obscured by that ever-present fog of despair.
Genevieve was not completely removed from her senses. She understood what had been lost. She felt the echoing chambers within her heart that mirrored the mournful silence of the home around her. And the echoes within gave small thoughts room to grow. Genevieve pondered about how strange it is, that what drives people may abandon them midstream, how what may fill ears with lies one moment then tells truths that bring people low the next. She recognized the folly of her searching – of her exploring possibility, hungry for sustaining adoration, yet finding out enough to render her helpless.
She glided through the house in a semi-daze, heading for her bedroom – once a refuge, now a prison. Why is it, she thought, that we strive and strain, bellow and believe; that we learn, and everything we learn tells us the same thing: that life will disappoint you.
Time and again.
Mechanically she covered her dresses with scented tissue paper. One after another, like a layer cake. Velvet, paper, silk, paper. A flash of golden thread, the sweet curve of an embroidered posy before being laid to rest under a uniform sheet of scented paper. Until there was nothing left of her costumes of glamour and life besides a shroud made of pulp. Genevieve ran a hand over the smooth surface, before standing, and slamming the trunk shut. Moving towards the mirror, the Howlester pulled down the plain black wool, securing it to the white linen sleeves at her wrist, wincing as she continued to ache.
As she studied her reflection in the mirror, securing the black veil over her hair, she came upon a realization. That it was more likely the fear of emptiness, of being left alone in a world where everyone else abandoned her. That she had longed for a desperate surge of action, for once in her life to take her fate into her own hands. That she wanted a place in the real world, amongst all those that were so much farther along the path to success. Wanted something concrete, tangible to cling to - something that was visible to others.
And a numbness came over her. A chill of comprehension that there was nothing else. That the futility within her was not a temporary maze in which she would find her way out of. That life in all its cruelty had crashed upon her like a storm. All the good things that had once filled her life now seemed petty and small compared to the yawning chasm that laid before her. And a brutal acceptance slammed into the woman. That dreams are lies, and that the road before her was a cold, empty lane, littered with disappointment.
Genevieve thought she'd better have had enough of substitutes.
Oh how she wishes it was different
She says I pray..
But they fall on deaf ears
Am I supposed to take it on myself
To get out of this place
There's a loneliness inside her
And she'd do anything to fill it in
And though it's red blood bleeding from her now,
It feels like cold blue ice in her heart
and it breaks her heart
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