Everyday passed as the last, she couldnít distinguish one day from the other. Routine had become habit, habit had become convention and convention had become tradition. Everyday the same.
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Even the season of winter had permanence in the old, tired garden that was filled with the gloomy absence of life. No longer did the climbers climb the walls of the ancient mansion. Now they lay still. Silent. Sleeping. Happiness had escaped the castles grasp for centuries. Like fog it had looked so solid and tangible once, but now it was lost, escaped into the world. Then the mansion became a prison to everything. Anything related to hope.
She sat in the window to her life. A large, powerful vision of Godís compassion for the world. The vision of beauty was mocked by the houseís bleak and withered appearance. Her mind wondered to far away continents, places of wonder, fantasy, hellish beasts not of this world. And still she sat, waiting for a brick of empathy to break her prison of silence.
Once a day a maid brought an offering of bread and honey to the Romanian Goddess. Her hearts strings plucked by the birds in the far away town, howling to the sunrise, and screaming as the sunsets. How she wished she could fly away, far far away. Free herself from tradition, habit, routine.
But still she sits. Waiting in that window of the forgotten house, on the sleepy hill of Evermoore. Her silkily black hair trails along the floor, so long from the centuries of empty actionless torture. Her skin was as pale as the snow that coats the gardens, and twice as cold. In the heat of her hearts desire her eyes still glisten with the blue of the sky.
There was one last fire of emotion buried deep in her inner soulís caged recess. Fear. The fear of hoping, the fear of dreaming about forever. Her black velvet dress shapes her figure, perfection, intangible perfection for the eyes of only a God. The cold and lifeless stone floor rips apart the dream of relaxation. It is as cold as the heart of her jailer. She is reminded of him every time she lays foot to floor, his burning passion for her is forever in the room, moulded into her face.
Men have dreamt about her. To climb the mountain. To reach the top. To see the beauty: a goal of a true hero. But who is foolish enough to combat such a beast, so evil that he locks her in solidarity? Neither Hercules, nor Zeus himself can pry her from his grasp, that still keeps her forcefully present in her prison of the moment. No one may touch. No one may look at any part of her he does not wish them to see. So she sits at her window. Sits - and waits - and forgets whatever she knew about freedom.
A few years ago now, however, she was moved. The room stayed as it was, but now people may gaze in awe at the perfect lines that have formed around her frozen image and created a new beauty. She hangs on the wall. She does not swing. She still has her window on which the world can stare at the painting that a god created.
Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.