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23 April 2006
This whole story -I shall write more soon- was in my head for a full year. I had tried to write it several times before, but it never came out right. I sat down again to write and here it is.
Young women would strut around in black shoes with black silk ribbons in their hair. They would wear their black skirts, shaped with wire sewn inside and out of sight. They were quiet, except for the few who would stop and sing for other passerby, collecting billfolds of money once they were done. They walked in platforms, stilettos, and flats. Their hair were coloured, natural, curled, fresh, clean, dirty. All walked by with knowing eyes and quirked lips. They knew art, music, science, magic.
There was no religion, just passion and fashion. Young men with pierced ears, brows, lips, and tongues. Silver chains glimmering, nickel flashing. In black suits, black jeans, black shirts. They were lean, bulky, short, tall. They walked by with eyes that could see what others couldn't. There was a truth among them, something that could not be shared through words. In mere gestures they could tell who knew and who didn't. They walked with their hair spiked or slicked, cut or long, natural or false. They knew of magic, too, but preferred their large open canvas, blank sheet of paper, or wondrous numbers that always came out the way they were supposed to.
These people are all rejects, holding beauty within their hearts, but also terrible beasts. They had reached their ropes' end and had found themselves here, in their own Shangri La with gloomy skies and polite people. The buildings were old and the trees even older, wise. The insides were electric with large paintings of bones and angels, fire and mermaids, moons and flowers. Music pulsed within their veins, their solace and binding agent to each other. No one ever left and they stayed for a long time, never aging but always growing more.
In their sleep they were muses, beautiful muses swathed in chiffon, silk, tulle, and leather. They gave gifts to struggling artists -artists of sorts and scientists alike- to help them find their way, to make them happy. Yes, they held beauty in their hearts -and this came clear within their gifts- but they always remembered the beasts which haunted them during the lonely hours at night. They kept these beasts at bay by surrounding themselves with beautiful things -the deepest blood-red roses, sparkling jewels, shining silver, and well-tailored clothes to suit their tastes. The beasts showed through, however, in the mutual colours of choice. Everyone wore black to remind themselves that even though they lived within their own Shangri La they also lived with demons. They wore red -partially- to remind themselves that though they never aged they were filled with blood that could easily spill and made of flesh that could easily be torn. They lived with these awful truths and channeled the moments of hopelessness into their work.
People who knew more in this place than anyone else in the world. They knew truth and embraced it. They created beautiful things, but they always reflected their ugly twins. People who had no other choice or didn't belong found themselves here. Sometimes, sensitive souls wound up here in search for their true place and true love. This place was a strange one, for no one knew how they came to be there and no one knew why they specifically were chosen -or if they were chosen at all. They weren't here, always waiting. They were there, always living. With no religion and no true hatred there was no one thought for long why or how, they just thought when and where. Even with their gloomy skies they were happy, at peace, and never alone -save for the few rare hours at night when they looked up and the stars in the clear night sky and felt so small in comparison.
