Post by Edward Cullen on Feb 21, 2013 9:24:29 GMT -5
A strange tune was pulsing through Edward's head as he left the abandoned library. He checked his surroundings to make sure he wasn't just catching the conscious of an errant human. There was no one. He supposed the song was in his head, an idea stranger than the fact that he was alone—almost humming—in an abandoned library. It was not often that he composed, the activity was neither planned nor anticipated. Yet, there was a core sense, a sort of predictability that accompanied composing, this was—while cheesy—love. Edward had truly composed only twice, well three actually, if you included Alice's tune. The first had been Esme's song. It was a brief movement based on the compassion that Esme so willingly bequeathed upon him, reminding him so much of his own human mother. He began to think about the second, processing the songs as though they were mechanical tasks on a list. The Second song. In some cases the only song, the main truest song he had ever written. That song was for Bella. Bella, that sweet intangibly poignant creature. And that song which could be described using all the aforementioned adjectives. That song was her, at least an essence he had hoped to capture. Of course the song was, like many other things, impossible to keep forever.
Edward had recorded the song only once, on a cheap CD, other than that it would never exist to the minds of so many. He would always remember it, his family as well, but Bella? The song would slip out of her mind after years of never hearing it. It was one of those terrifying puzzles, when you know something exists—in this case the song—yet the world will never know it since it will be locked in your mind. As a rather private person Edward didn't mind the fact that the world would never know. It was better, after all, the idea of a vampire musician was more of a hoax than Grammy-worthy material. The irritation was not even spurred because of a need to share the melody with the world. It was more than that, it was something philosophically inherent in every person. How would it be remembered? If the existence of an object was based solely on how long it was thought of and remembered, would it cease to exist after a point.
In that manner would everything that had transpired over the past year be forgotten, and lost, as well? There was a odd sense, almost like he was reconciling himself to the fact that after a point the past year would be little more than a memory. There was no substantial proof, besides his memories, that would last with anyone. Perhaps, amid his own reasoning, the anyone who he cared about so much was Bella. No substantial proof would be left with her of his existence. Had that not been what he wanted? Before he left did had he not removed all traces that he had interrupted her life? But he still had to remember the fact that he had left things behind.
The CD, the pictures, they were all under the floorboards. Well, most of the photos, he had actually taken one, just so that way he would always have some proof of her life.
But, being the complete idiot he was he had left it among the scattered boxes that had surrounded his new room. Edward tried to convince himself he wasn't thinking when he left his family, he wasn't sure of where he was going. For that reason he had left the picture, the one that show the painful disparity between lethality of him next to her fragile form, at the house or he supposed what would have been his new home. He could have left clues. Edward could have let her know that they existed just under the soles of her petite feet. But he hadn't. And he wouldn't. It was selfish of him to think that he should make her suffer more, by leaving things behind, just so she would remember him.
Edward had recorded the song only once, on a cheap CD, other than that it would never exist to the minds of so many. He would always remember it, his family as well, but Bella? The song would slip out of her mind after years of never hearing it. It was one of those terrifying puzzles, when you know something exists—in this case the song—yet the world will never know it since it will be locked in your mind. As a rather private person Edward didn't mind the fact that the world would never know. It was better, after all, the idea of a vampire musician was more of a hoax than Grammy-worthy material. The irritation was not even spurred because of a need to share the melody with the world. It was more than that, it was something philosophically inherent in every person. How would it be remembered? If the existence of an object was based solely on how long it was thought of and remembered, would it cease to exist after a point.
In that manner would everything that had transpired over the past year be forgotten, and lost, as well? There was a odd sense, almost like he was reconciling himself to the fact that after a point the past year would be little more than a memory. There was no substantial proof, besides his memories, that would last with anyone. Perhaps, amid his own reasoning, the anyone who he cared about so much was Bella. No substantial proof would be left with her of his existence. Had that not been what he wanted? Before he left did had he not removed all traces that he had interrupted her life? But he still had to remember the fact that he had left things behind.
The CD, the pictures, they were all under the floorboards. Well, most of the photos, he had actually taken one, just so that way he would always have some proof of her life.
But, being the complete idiot he was he had left it among the scattered boxes that had surrounded his new room. Edward tried to convince himself he wasn't thinking when he left his family, he wasn't sure of where he was going. For that reason he had left the picture, the one that show the painful disparity between lethality of him next to her fragile form, at the house or he supposed what would have been his new home. He could have left clues. Edward could have let her know that they existed just under the soles of her petite feet. But he hadn't. And he wouldn't. It was selfish of him to think that he should make her suffer more, by leaving things behind, just so she would remember him.