"Kaia, Kaia" where are you?
The sound of ones own voice in memory retains a vibration; without the nuances of the voice. The voice of memory, is a longing, to re-imagine what is lost, something that indulges in a recollection of the original emotion, while experiencing a compliment with its own beauty. A beauty that is the only purpose of recollection, for now, you could stand detached to the original memory.
Its a peculiar recollection. In it one finds his voice, without the noise.
And it was all noise when I had first called out. I was always agitated when I ran looking for Kaia. The agitation born out of a world turned upside down for a minute, or two, before it regained composure.
It is odd, I never thought of the question itself, I always knew where to find her. Getting there was a problem, my legs never seemed to carry me fast enough. An inconsolable cry, that would, in my certainty only settle when I reached her doll house, or her plant in her garden. Or perhaps I was inconsolable so I could run looking for her? Its difficult to tell now, for the dust has settled on all my fears.
When I found her, we played, we pretended, we fought. She never asked me about my agitation when I got there, and I might have mentioned an inconsequential in the passing. It was a ritual and we both knew what we had to do.
On some evenings, she might come to watch me play. She would make no noise, just watch us play, me and my friends. Everyone would notice her in her pretty pinks. Even then she had the presence of a silent force. Tom, would always call out and ask her if she would play, she would smile, rather dismissively, and look at me. Like a declaration that she was already in her game.
I was rather good, in everything I did. For her it was like she had nothing to do.
Codnt.
The sound of ones own voice in memory retains a vibration; without the nuances of the voice. The voice of memory, is a longing, to re-imagine what is lost, something that indulges in a recollection of the original emotion, while experiencing a compliment with its own beauty. A beauty that is the only purpose of recollection, for now, you could stand detached to the original memory.
Its a peculiar recollection. In it one finds his voice, without the noise.
And it was all noise when I had first called out. I was always agitated when I ran looking for Kaia. The agitation born out of a world turned upside down for a minute, or two, before it regained composure.
It is odd, I never thought of the question itself, I always knew where to find her. Getting there was a problem, my legs never seemed to carry me fast enough. An inconsolable cry, that would, in my certainty only settle when I reached her doll house, or her plant in her garden. Or perhaps I was inconsolable so I could run looking for her? Its difficult to tell now, for the dust has settled on all my fears.
When I found her, we played, we pretended, we fought. She never asked me about my agitation when I got there, and I might have mentioned an inconsequential in the passing. It was a ritual and we both knew what we had to do.
On some evenings, she might come to watch me play. She would make no noise, just watch us play, me and my friends. Everyone would notice her in her pretty pinks. Even then she had the presence of a silent force. Tom, would always call out and ask her if she would play, she would smile, rather dismissively, and look at me. Like a declaration that she was already in her game.
I was rather good, in everything I did. For her it was like she had nothing to do.
Codnt.
Now, this flashback is making things interesting, to later fall into perspective; the first glimpse into the major characters.
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