Journalistic Intent

I see him, standing there. Waiting. Waiting for what? Shoulders slumped forward and expression drawn in the vast conception of emptiness and longing. How is it that he has come to this place? His fingers flail as his jaw juts out, anguish set in the tight lines that mark his demeanor. Fresh from the womb of life he draws on a cigarette, flailing his lighter as he fidgets with the catch. Stark and seemingly abandoned he glances from one side to the next, eyes wafting over a forlorn figure drenched in ambiguity. What is his story?

Anguish rips through her as she cowers beneath the asphalt shelter. Shivering, secluded, one of the night. Armed with a strong sense of breaking through fear she grips the railing, fumbling in her pockets for anything that may end the despair. How did she end up in this place? Why her? Past decisions reflect on her incessant longing for a want of new surroundings. She is empty. The desolate one seeking guidance. Alone in this place she looks out at the tracks. All it would take. She knows what she needs to do. She feels it as strong as the wind snaking through the sea. A joy, spreading warmth throughout her as she accepts her fate. Slowly, shakily, she lifts her head and begins to creep towards the blinding lights. Stumbling, she regains her confidence in what is to come. Allowing herself one last pleasure she reaches up towards the heavens as darkness pours down upon her. Her choice. Her life. Her way. Finally.

He watches with dense fascination as her slight form shudders. How ironic that she should be the one to be strong. Always searching she was, waiting for life’s decisions to be made by anyone but herself. Inwardly assessing, he dreams of his own desires and longings that made him stumble upon this here place. Knowledge gained certainly, but self-fulfillment not even close. A witness to the atrocities that mark every day off like a page torn from a notebook’s scattered scrawl. He’d always desired to break free from the conformist prison that is life as many know it. In rebellion though he became one just as the rest. The realization hunkered down upon him that individualism is and always will be, something everyone tries to achieve without any real results. Gasping for breath he looks down at the glass vial that could easily conclude his endless fate as the historical audience. Searching for words for the page he scrawls illegible layerings of the truth. But whose truth should he tell? That of his own or the foretold innocence of his predecessor? With bitterness he cries that her only truth lay in her ending. For when can one truly believe that what one says is the whole truth? Certainly not he, for doesn’t life call for certain understandings of misconstrued knowledge? Perhaps not. Fidgeting with his cuffs, he loosens his tie and buries the note beneath his meager belongings. Anything for an assignment. He always hoped he would not only stand on the edge of someone else’s story, but matter enough that someone would write his own. Arrogance and unforgiving trials kept him from certain fulfillment. This here blessed story would be his finale. His truth. His dialogue. His way. And so it concludes.

Journalistic Intent

Brooke Michelle

Joined May 2009

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    Notes
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Artist's Description

A search for truth..

Artwork Comments

  • sinX
  • Brooke Michelle
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