The Sun

Not poetry. A short story. A very short story. But it was theraputic, so that's okay, I guess.

    I don't remember the last time I saw the sun.

    Has it been days? Weeks? Months? Time means nothing to me anymore. Everything just runs together in a giant, multicolored blur, like watercolors on wet paper. A blur moving so fast that it makes my head spin. Fall fell into winter, winter melted into spring, and so here I am, falling over from the madness of it all.
   
    The only thing that’s clear to me now is November. The November I tore out a part of my soul and threw it to the wind, not realizing how deep a hole it had ripped in me. I remember as the fall gave its terminal breath, my blood froze into icicles, stabbing at my arteries. I remember the pain.

    When the borders started growing fuzzy, everything in and around me was dying, gasping for air in an atmosphere with no more oxygen. So I reached out from the shattered pieces of my soul and latched on to everyone nearby. Finally having found a host, I leeched off of them, constantly in need of love and attention. The bitter irony of it all was not lost on me, and when I was alone again, I returned to the same, lifeless routine of repeatedly checking for something that wasn’t there.

    I grew used to the cold, and the blur deepened into a thick fog, a fog I gladly used to hide behind. But I can say that after the worst of it was over, I was happier. I went on with my life, knowing that no amount of pining could resurrect the past. I saw my friends, I went to parties, and generally was an average person.

    As desperately as I hung on to the peace of this graveyard season, spring reared its ugly head and overcame it anyway. And so, my troubles began all over again when the first flower opened, the bright colors a mockery of the turbulence in my memory.

    It’s funny how damaged you can be by simply seeing something. I was in an ocean of beauty, I shone with everyone around me. Time froze when the ugliness came in, and what everyone else was blind to, I saw. Oh God, I saw. And I wanted to shut my eyes forever for the awfulness of it all. The earth crashed within itself, shifted. Inside me, everything fragmented and fell to pieces. Walking became a chore, breathing a nuisance.

    But here I am, my life still on repeat. The days echo, and I don’t remember where or when I am. Just like the silly little girl I am, I still check, every day. And every day, it’s still not there. And it never will be.

    So when did I last see the sun?

    I saw it in November. Then the clouds consumed it.
 

Author's Note

I don't know if this makes any sense at all. I've never been much of a prose writer, I'm more into poetry. But I do like the basic concept of this mess, and if you have suggestions on how to make it better, I'd love to hear them.

Reviews

[Mioki]

This makes sense to me, I think. I'm not sure if the way I see your story is the way you intended it, but either way I enjoyed this work completely.

The sun, perhaps, stood for maybe something that was lost. The way you described November, "The November I tore out a part of my soul and threw it to the wind, not realizing how deep a hole it had ripped in me. I remember as the fall gave its terminal breath, my blood froze into icicles, stabbing at my arteries. I remember the pain." shows a talent for conveying emotions. It describes how the person in the story feels that they lost a significant part of themselves, and it sets up a reason for why they feel so alone, and yearn for someone to love, " Finally having found a host, I leeched off of them,"

This story is one of those rare, breathtaking and sensation shocking stories, that coming across is difficult. It also shows your poetical skills, because of your vivid way of describing things.I have no suggestions; I loved this piece absolutely.