Red Room Where the Writers Are

You can close your eyes to reality but not to memories.   -- Stanislaus Lec

                He stood there, looking out of his window and watching as the sun cast its golden rays upon the vast horizon. With a brief chuckle, he tried to dismiss the thought of not having been able to watch the sunset for a number of months now. He had been so busy that he no longer had time for anything else but work. As he paced himself toward his workroom, he let out yet another sigh of weariness. He knew he’d be up until midnight as there were still several things piled up for him to finish.

***

She stood there, watching as the stars obliviously poured their little lights upon the dark terrain below them. The skies reminded her of him—how he viewed the stars as pieces of mysticism whereas she saw them as hints of certainty.

She had always been awed by the various spectacles in the sky—the sunset, stars, rainbows, and even those clouds that displayed any figures of things that the imagination could form. He? He seemed to have been more amused at her being awed than at the spectacles themselves. She thought so, for back then, as she was watching the sunset, he was watching her.

***

                They were different, but these differences seemed to have been the ones that had drawn them together—his silence, her inquisitiveness; his doubts, her faith; his vagueness, her transparency. Even in state of sadness, for instance, they took separate outlets. When in grief, she would look at the skies and lose herself in contemplation. He, on the other hand, would confront his tasks and drown himself in work.

                There was indeed beauty in diversity, but expectations were too strong for them to make things last as long as they had wanted. It ended, with neither of them wanting it but with neither actively going against it.

And as they lay in bed, miles apart from each other, they tried to close their eyes to the things they had—both of them failing miserably.   # 

***

 This was my first attempt at writing fiction. I was about 20. I better stick to nonfiction, ‘no? Haha.