...I promised to post something creative, so here's a short bit of observational prose.
he
I can see the back of her head from up here, resting against her hand on the heavy wooden bannister. There's too much noise for her to hear me if I called, and too many bodies throng the steps between us. I can't reach her.
they
{fragments of thoughts, noise, confusion, surging mob-mind}
she
I feel the noise around me through my fingers like the grain of the wood they grip. One ear is pressed hard to my hand blocking out half of the sounds, while their lost pairs tumble in to my other up turned ear. nobody jostles me - which is strange. Each day here moving through the corridors I am pushed and shunted by the hoardes of others surging to and fro, but now that I am standing still they all miss me. Barely perceptably I can feel the air move as they pass without even brushing my side.
Perhaps... perhaps if I stayed here, curled against the foot of these stairs staring into my own thoughts everything will pass by like that. Perhaps I'd like that. I imagine time passing me down these stairs, and not seeing me here, forgetting me and sweeping past oblivious, absorbed in its own movement not seeing my stillness, just like this moment.
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