By the abandoned deck, it was the shimmering reflection of the imperfect lilac moon and the swinging conscious feet.
Stars, that died a million years ago, were the last witnesses.
The sky, that was deceptively alive, was the soothing background orchestra.
And, the air, the most knowing communicator between innocence and calmness.
The scenery, as generic as a hipster movie’s ending, was the snapshot of simplicity.
The difference was: this was a beginning, instead of an end.
Kindness was the most carefree creature that night, not being aware of its innate lurking violence, and its explosive yet lasting hatred. Playing on the earphones was, “Silhouette” by Owl City, an melancholic-nostalgic kind of song, yet had not gone through enough hours to be named an “old classic”.
Leaned on her` shoulder, only being parted by the thickness of a cotton shirt, she inhaled her` eerie yet alluring scent, a smell that was in between the softest flower in the world and the suffocating aroma of flowing vodka, that could be left forgotten in a second, or forever linger in tortured minds.
She asked, after a moment of hesitation, “Do you see, across the ocean, there’s a little boy scavenging among the pile of sands, in search of an old blurry photograph of happiness?” It was, in fact, more of a statement than a question, yet her long-lived self doubt was, again, in the way of all the supposed straightforwardness in this already-complex-world.
She` patted her flying pieces of hair and, predictably, did not utter a single word. But, it was more than evident that she` did not see it and, unfortunately, did not bother seeing it either.
Nonetheless, the night had to go on.
Yet, they never knew that heartbeats were frozen, ever since that one particular moment, when one strand of her fragile hair fell into the vicious water and decided to never return.
As much changes as the rest of the night had casted on the sky, it was nothing worth mentioning in honour of the beauty of words, nothing worth taking the capacity of the world, or the space of any existing minds.
Such was, merely, a realistic version, that was aimlessly imagined, of what is usually labeled as a “story”. Unlike most, it did not crave for any concrete plot lines, build-ups, or conflicts.
All it showed was broken clips of unreturned scenery, unrecognisable faces, several ambiguous sentences, and pure helplessness.
Literatures, or any stories, unfortunately, are just as helpless as humans are.
Out of all the troubling uncertainties, I, however, know for certain that, she` had never existed from the very beginning, and, never will in the traceable future, as long as time lives and space endures.