Post by Peter Petrelli on Sept 30, 2009 12:09:03 GMT -5
( BORN ALONE , WE DIE ALONE , )
i'm just sittin' here by the phone , waitin' for the Lord to send my callin'
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Things happen to the most random of people giving them the strengths and courage they don’t need; making their already powerful and well grown life even the more important. Why do all of us human beings find ourselves drawn to the mere calloused seduction of the arts we all fancy ourselves part off? The world fades and the reigning clouds of yesteryears enter, dawning our most complied and sophisticated accomplishments and drowns them into nothing. We humans are nothing more than the pillars of puppets—all working for one purpose or another. Some of us have been borne to serve—others come to serve on their own—while most of us have no choice and we are forced to serve. Every branch has a bark in which it stands and every bark has a trunk. That is the circle of ourselves—we are the branches of tomorrow and slowly and acidly we are being controlled and dominated by the ones who balance us and keep us together.
It wasn’t like him to sit in the middle of an open park—in Dublin no less—and write to his heart’s content. Months it had been since he had moved out of his apartment in the grandest city of all—or so they said, and moved here—in Dublin. Strange it was—how different it was from his previous life, almost as if that life he had once lived was eons away and it would make no sense for it to come back. His horn-rimmed glasses perched against his nose, his hair slicked back, and his clothes that would suggest he was out for a shot at golf—Peter was here, writing in a journal that he had kept since he moved here. Every single page was filled with entries of his life and how everything was forming and paralleling together in a heap of confusion and misjudgment. The world would slowly be going to flames—this had been a theory that he had gathered a long time ago; his mum, Noah—Mr. Bishop; had all been involved in it—creating Sylar had been their idea—and now this mess with the world and all its masses were their fault; Peter refused to be a puppet to their games anymore.
He was sick and tired of being kept in the dark; while Nathan and his mum went parading around doing what they pleased and how they wanted. Nothing was right—everything was just a slimily of the mess they had bargained themselves with. A sigh fell upon his lips as his mind replayed everything that was happening--- yet here, none of that could find him. In the eyes of everyone else, Peter was just another nameless bystander in the park—minding his own business and writing to his heart’s content—and maybe when he really thirsted for some freedom—he would pick up the frequencies from the ER station and possibly save some lives. It was unhealthy job, then again, what did he know about being healthy—he was cursed from the day that he was born—if not, from the very first day; doomsday or worse.
Focusing back on sheet of half written paper in front of him, he closed his journal—his mind straying, not really knowing what to say or do—all he wanted was some solidarity—perhaps a comfort of some sorts. Women—he had long since given up on—with the first woman he loved dying and losing the second one in an alternate universe; Peter had no wish to ever sully himself with a relationship again. He just wasn’t cut out for the normal luxuries everyone else had. In his life; there was no room for love or anything else that would make a man remotely happy. The only thing that was understood was the compromise that rifled through his veins—teaching him the art of submission and patience. One day he would possibly die here—grow old without a loving caress or a whispered promise, then again, he didn’t want that—did he? It was just the spark of loneness that was speaking through his head.
For now he would just head back to his cozy one bedroom apartment—maybe enjoy a nap on his couch or maybe enjoy some TV. He knew none of that would satisfy him—Peter wanted with all his might to be back in New York—but that part of his life had long since been over. He promised himself over and over he would never go back to that life or let any part of that life touch him ever again—but, no matter what—the image of him being able to use his powers again filled his brain—and no matter how hard he tried to stop the moving images he couldn’t. How long would he be able to run from who he was? Run away from his family? Run away from everyone that cared about him? Peter didn’t think he had what it took to forgive his mother and brother for what they did—in the end, they were just as fucked up and scared as he was.
Standing to his full height, he stopped to look around him—basking himself in the small comfort that the park had always brought him—he immensely enjoyed the tiny joys that this splendor brought him—running a hand through his slicked black hair—he waited for something—anything to come his way. But it never did, no one had spoken a word to him in his five straight months of coming here; Peter didn’t think it would be any different now. Then again, he had never gone around making friends either, the sense of socialism had long since been lost with everything else, maybe he left that back in New York as well.
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NOTES , sorry i was museless !
TAGGED , anyone. its open !
WORDS , 1114
WEARING , nothing.
FINISHED , nope, just starting !
TAGGED , anyone. its open !
WORDS , 1114
WEARING , nothing.
FINISHED , nope, just starting !
