masquerade confessions

there will come a time where the world becomes quiet. the clock does not tick, and the hours stop. the past is stagnant and the future never recedes, possibilities waiting, regrets never mounting. the beat of your heart envelops your conscience. so you'd better learn the sound of it. otherwise, you'll never understand what it's saying. the infrastructure of time daunted the boy, its pillars and foreshadows posed juxtapositions too bright for the mind to comprehend. mahogany gradients blending into substance, indistinguishable from one moment and the next. time was a fantastical phenomenon indeed, less preposterous as the boy could not distinguish tomorrow from today, a century from the pulse of a second. The cry of time was, all the same, its wail too far, the boy could not tell if he had lived a hundred days or just a fraction of a second. As we are whiling away days of idleness, time may flow rashly through the screen of our thoughts and veil the relevance of individual fragments in our story. The clock of reality can arrest us, though, and compel us to confront the demands of the truth.  

pain pierced its way through the boy's skull, coarse and constant, as he stood up from the textured book of phantoms, pages wrinkled and weathered, emitting an outlandish glow all the more prominent reflected by the library. its pages donating value to the beholder, a beholder of utmost comprehensive boundaries - able to divulge the fantastical secrets laying within the reaches of time-stewed wisdom. An audience seeking comfort had perished long before the paradox of time came into existence, comfort was not a core value for the boy, with the book's abrasive features and burlap-rough surface, but steady and vibrant. intricate wilted flowers creeping up its spine, slowly suffocating, its blue leaves graying and stem stunting, smiling in goodbye almost, the flower leaned over, fastened to the books with a piece of string. acting as but an embellishment, for the adorned mask gracing itself into the designs of the hardcover, seeping into the coarse layers and bewitching its beholders with a curse so lovely. the mask ornamented with a sinful luster was enough to project euphoric pleasures, with its majestic gradients forming a beautiful silver, small flowers anew sprouting along a part unprotected by the masks thin shell, surrounding the other eye through which a gold tear ran forever, in a way that, half the face was prone to projection while the other half luxuries in gold trinkets plated silver. 

amidst the screening of beauty attempting to paralyze the senses stitched into the substantial book, a pierce of pain jolted the boy, amplified with the immoral forces of the revel. the pierce of lightning inside his skull blinded him, transferring eternities, within another reality, a story already told and sealed back in the abrasive book. laid to rest in its grave of desire and weakness. a reality meant to be forgotten engulfed his senses, his conscience. the moon engulfed the sky, laying prisoner to every angel in its wake, chanting its worship to the gods receiving homage deep within the seven skies, yet the sky above was inky black. but the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards the boy with the salt wind from the sea. Rain fell; and falling it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. like aqueous hale, the blood freckled the adorned mask of a creature, its wings sprouting upward made of gold, lining the eye lobe simultaneously fading into a cracked texture of the skin, horrifyingly sinful, through in-discrimination suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. whispers of a promise diffused into the rain embellished air around, a promise, of salvation. the scene tarnished from his senses along the line of his skull as the context morphed back into the tranquility of the library, the tears of rain thudding windows. 

the wail of rain defined as a figure appeared in front of the boy, feet laced with spiral gold embellishment, standing erect, the boy traced up the figure to her eyes, azure and stagnant, a whisper of afterlives laying within, the mask akin to the one etched into the layers of the hollow book, reminiscent of life from, yellow leaves and gossamer, in autumns that there were with morning mist and the silver sun, and wind upon the hair. still bewilderingly analogous to the disturbing fragment of apparent memory the boy was now regaining consciousness from as though sister to a crime, the mask upon the girl whispered fortunes of winter without spring.  Her eyes the only feature unbound by the imprisonment of the mask shielding her inner appearance. breaking the pondering of inclinations within her eyes, the girl looked into the secrets laying within his "Do you remember?" she whispered, aloft inside his lark green lobes, the boy interpreted her question and tiled his head, staring down at her, trickles of black hair fell into his face as he replied "Like it was yesterday. I sit beside the fire and think of all I have not seen, of meadow flowers and butterflies, in summers that have been of mahogany leaves and thistledown. Time has not granted me solace in its flow of innate structure as you are aware, however, why is it that I do not forget the subjects of our improvisation." his hair fell in heaps of volume as his skull stayed in the tilt position, leaning closer to the minor altitude of the girl, studying abstruse into the majestic azure of her gold embellished orbs. she mirrored his expression, the scene reminiscent of a painting done in vain, to sight a lover at last and achieve vindication.

 "I sit beside the fire and think, of how the world will be when winter comes without leave, that I shall ever see, for still there are many things, that I have never seen, in every wood in every spring, there is a different garden. I sit beside you and proclaim my solicitude, maybe it is the remembrance of opportunities or the planets conspiring among st each other, maybe it is the gods taking pleasure in our union, morphing the paradox of time itself to fit in our pathetic realities into its own panorama. In good or evil, in salvation or damnation, my friend, would you say it matters?"

relapsing the fragments of thought by the beat, the boy breaks propagation of sardonic mysteries through the passage of eyes, fully comprehending the depth of her word, a rare smile plagues their lower face, eerily acting in mirror-like fashion for each of the others discrete movements as they settle down on the warm comforts from the floor, the heath warming deep through the stones and a pleasant atmosphere transforming the previous cold wilting flowers. she looks into the book, its pages and pages, and pages. She flipped through each one fervently, intently, intentionally. Ripping each page slightly as she turned another. "unfortunately time must pass, at least in the world outside your library, but that is the beauty of it, of assurance in death, maybe even salvation in leaving this reality and entering another."