xletter-to-myselfx

It wasn't the first time he stumbled upon someone he wish he had never met. He thought back to countless times. Girls with curled hair, bosoms pushed high by corsets, and reeking of a sweet smelling perfume to cover up the sweat under their bangs. Men with long hair, speaking of eternal peace as they touched his hands and sang softly under their breath along to the loud background music of a woman far ahead of her day who would meet her maker all too soon. But this was new. The mother was a bustling thing, clad in a soft fabric littered with flowers and stains. Her hair held back in a dirtied rag tied around her head. Soft black curls touche

Very plain, and insincere. A man of high fashion stumbles upon the cobble stone walkway only to be caught by a foreign hand. His eyes take in the odd fabric of his pants, and the vibrant design of his blouse. The foreigner releases him, and bows slightly, continuing on his way, leaving behind yet another confused memory. The man fixes his top hat, before deciding that his prior meeting has lost its importance. He follows this foreigner. This man far out of place, who has capture his interest with his odd choice of clothing. Where are his boots? Isn't he cold without his coat? Has his misplaced his tie? What happened to his hair to become in

It felt like a grenade to the chest. The fear of its explosion. How catastrophic it will. The anxiety, the wait, and then it happens. At first he didn't feel the pain. It was barely a touch to his shoulder. He shook his head and went on with his day. But then a few days later he found himself on the cold tiles of the kitchen gripping his chest. The pain, he finally felt it. The shell shock was over, and here came the pain. It was unbearable, unforgiving, heated, quick, throbbing, pain pain pain. He could feel the tears on his cheek, realizing he had begun to cry. His vision blurred, and his chest felt like it was caving in. The pressure incr

It was a dim lit hallway. A more English style setting with the soft reds, dark pinks, frilly lamps. A soft place to rest his aching head, and an angel. An absolute angel who loomed over him speaking in a tongue so beautiful, but not that he had ever heard. She said a name that sounded similar to his own and his confusion grew more. In heaven, didn't they speak the language of the angels? Wouldn't he gain knowledge of it immediately after entering the afterlife? Or had he fallen? Was he deep down in the pits of despair where his mother warned him about? Watch your footing, she would say, because one wrong step leads to a fiery demise for you