 |
|||||||||||||
 |
|
 |
|||||||||||
 |
 |
||||||||||||
Sipping her lukewarm tea, staring out a window that should have already been a bit more picturesque considering it was winter, she said to him. "Life isn't a metaphor, Chale." Her eyes flitted across the room in an effort to prove her point. "This room is dull. Years from know people will look back on it. Hell, it might even be a museum. And they'll say, 'this is how people lived'. They'll find meaning in the faded paint, and they'll never restore it to maintain the 'authenticity'." She took her pointer finger and dragged it across the top of the microwave, which had begun to collect a rather large amount of dust. "They'll look at this, and say that history, the most engaging of histories took place. But all it is, is two people who couldn't be bothered renovating their homes. Because we're lazy, and cheap. And anyone will buy this house anyways because it's in a pretty decent neighbourhood." Chale looked down at the table at which he was sitting, and stared at a pen that was about to roll off the table. Tyne wasn't really paying attention to what Chale was doing, or if he wanted to speak. She just kept rolling her words out with each sip of tea. "They'll find our fingerprints here. They'll identify us as a couple of old geezers who were too tired working the past forty years to maintain our house. Our children, long ahead of us, thriving in their youth. They'll comment on how the mismatched furniture appears to get older the further down you go in the house. They'll find the cobwebs enchanting. But its not. It's just dirt, Chale. Dirt we're too apathetic to do anything about. We won't move because we don't want to box anything up. We won't update because if its not broken, why fix it. They're just....things Chale. There's nothing poetic about life. We only make it so to give us a reason to keep attempting to move forward." Chale ruffled his remaining tuft of hair. He often wondered what had made his wife so cynical and melancholy over the years. In fact, he noticed, the more she grew disappointed with the world, the less she did about it. And the less he spoke. The initial connection that sparked their romance had dulled over time. He continued to stare at the table. It was made of wood. Sort of. The grain looked real, well, at least from a distance. He stopped contradicting Tyne a long time ago. When computers generated a better picture of wood than actual wood, and was coated over with a lacquer of something similar to plastic to prove durability. Was it really wood? His fingers traced from the surface to the table to underneath. His fingers found the prickly, shaved wood chips that had been compressed together to make the table. To think, that today, it took less work to chop a tree into a million little pieces, than it was to keep it solid. And if you painted over it the vision you truly wanted, it made it all the more real. But because you were putting your vision on what wood should be, in your mind, the plastic coating would last forever. And it would be okay. What wood. What would. He knocked his knuckles against the wood. It sounded like wood, just a bit more hollow than expected. "What on earth are you doing, Chale?" Her eyes grey, matching her complexion, her hair, her mind. "Come over here for a second, Tyne." His voice was soft, but his gaze was still focused on the table. Her attitude still sharp, she made her way over to her husband and sat in the chair next to him. Noting that his gaze was cast on the table, she looked down too. "What are we looking at?" Post a comment in response: |
| © 2002-2008. Blurty Journal. All rights reserved. |