angel

There is no reason, no format, no way to start such a delicate passage. So you must bear with me now, as I reason to you why my thoughts turned down an empty road, a long and winding sadness told. There is no sound, no rhythm, no melody. No storyline to be seen, but otherwise the inner ramblings of a occupied mind.

----

The laundry pile sits there. On the floor.

In a corner of my bedroom. The one furthest from the door. It's purposefully arranged that every time you walk in, the disgraced stack that took years and years to build, will be the first sight to greet you.

It's a Friday night. My mind is running, swimming, drowning in doubts of my own. But I'm yet to be allowed out of my apartment. So I take a basket and slowly, hesitantly start sorting the junk into little heaps dotted around. Some form of arrangement emerges, yet it seems to be more crowded, and perhaps even less organized as before.

I'm about 50 shirts, or dresses I never wore in, until I spot an abandoned little treasure in the depths of cloth.

It shouldn't surprise me as much as it does. But it does. And I chide myself for being so easily shook, then I turn my attention to the little white wing, slightly blackened with dust, peering out from a light grey hood.

I gently tug on it, revealing more and more until a little white statue sits on my palms.

----

The statue, slightly dusty, makes me sneeze as I attempt to wipe it down with a shirt. But then I stop. and I stare at the little angel playing a flute. I decide that it has a strange sort of charm, being a light grey colour. I leave it be. It almost feels melancholy, as if it was playing a little sad tune nobody would ever hear. A small trickle of music nearly pour out of the marble, trapped within the delicate, sculpted features caked in dust.