Post by Rosalind Decor on Mar 9, 2009 17:02:22 GMT -5
Here she was, in the Notre Dame cathedral, where Victor Hugo set his novel. It was so big and beautiful that Rosalind paused for a copule of minutes just to gape at it.
She had to supress the childish desire to explore everywhere and she had top lant her feet firmly on the ground to stop them from carrying her off to the bell tower.
Slowly she walked up the central passageway of the church, how often people called it the isle, she did not know, the book in her hand. She had read this book many times before, but never in here. She closed her eyes and could literally feel his spirit descend upon her and without even opening the book she knew she could recite it.
She opened her mouth and she started to sing, or really train her voice. It was a mystyrious tune "aaahh- ah-ah, ahh ah ah. ah ah ah ah, ah aaaaaahhhh" she carried on doing this, and added to the mysterious ait, and then suddenly it went and fell to the ground, as if a puppet had had its strings cut.
She remained sitting there, her legs tucked underthemselves her hands on the floors, her body curved over her knees and she remained silent, her heart thumping a mile a minute and she took a deep breath.
Words seem to spill out again, once again it was as if she was singing "I am sitting here
And I am alone
My heart is torn
Can it ever be whole again."
The it went, just as suddenly as it came, and her pink cheeks had graduated into shades of red, her dark eyes were shining for some unknown reason. She sat in a jet of light coming from the window and she was illuminated for a second, as if she was in a spotlight, but there was no stage, no audience; it was Rosalinds perfect performance area.
She wanted to dance, but her mind was back to the presence, next time she was alone she could dance, maybe even sing, but her mind was on the ever passing time, how long had she been gone for. This place, combined with the book that was still glasped in her small delicate hands had a strange effect on her and she was glad that she was alone.
Only she was not alone, someone was watching her.
She had to supress the childish desire to explore everywhere and she had top lant her feet firmly on the ground to stop them from carrying her off to the bell tower.
Slowly she walked up the central passageway of the church, how often people called it the isle, she did not know, the book in her hand. She had read this book many times before, but never in here. She closed her eyes and could literally feel his spirit descend upon her and without even opening the book she knew she could recite it.
She opened her mouth and she started to sing, or really train her voice. It was a mystyrious tune "aaahh- ah-ah, ahh ah ah. ah ah ah ah, ah aaaaaahhhh" she carried on doing this, and added to the mysterious ait, and then suddenly it went and fell to the ground, as if a puppet had had its strings cut.
She remained sitting there, her legs tucked underthemselves her hands on the floors, her body curved over her knees and she remained silent, her heart thumping a mile a minute and she took a deep breath.
Words seem to spill out again, once again it was as if she was singing "I am sitting here
And I am alone
My heart is torn
Can it ever be whole again."
The it went, just as suddenly as it came, and her pink cheeks had graduated into shades of red, her dark eyes were shining for some unknown reason. She sat in a jet of light coming from the window and she was illuminated for a second, as if she was in a spotlight, but there was no stage, no audience; it was Rosalinds perfect performance area.
She wanted to dance, but her mind was back to the presence, next time she was alone she could dance, maybe even sing, but her mind was on the ever passing time, how long had she been gone for. This place, combined with the book that was still glasped in her small delicate hands had a strange effect on her and she was glad that she was alone.
Only she was not alone, someone was watching her.