blackbox | kirishima eijirou

32 | moonlit lighthouse

Today's the day, isn't it?

The day when all of her muses gather from the dirt to create a sumptuous lighthouse rooted deep into the ground to the core and illuminate its beacon to navigate the sailors to the land of oasis.

Temporarily.

A lighthouse of fragmented remembrances, heart ashes, porcelain masks, salted creeks, crimson sketches and all of the things one had kept hidden in the daylight that's all to be forgotten in the form of a single lighthouse. A lighthouse where runaways would bring the fuse of their sufferings and light up the tower to stage a night by the coast to let everyone know that the moon and the lighthouse were the two beacons that stood out the most among the city.

In which, everyone pays to heed on them with shimmered eyes.

Temporarily.

And when daylight ascends, soon enough, the previous night will be forgotten.

Just like everyone else does.

"We're off to a business trip. We'll be back in 3 days. Make sure to take care of yourself properly and don't get into trouble. On a side note, we left plenty of money on the counter. Use it to get anything you want, honey. Happy Birthday! :) love, mum and dad. "

Sakura callously tossed the note aside as she swallowed the lump in her throat.

They could have informed me about it in my face rather than on a fucking note.

She glanced at the cash tucked underneath the fruit basket on the counter, scoffing.

As if all the money you guys gave me could make me happy.

She blinked away the tears when she felt the memories invading her mind, hearing the melodic laughter of hers forgotten in adolescence. The viscid silence in the barren house didn't go unnoticed too.

A house so lively in the eyes of the neighbourhood was vexatious to her. Why exactly? A modern house painted with cream blushes of vanilla and peaches, pitiful shrubs lined up by the pavement with elegant daisies adorning them, as if the lush shrubs weren't winning enough in the eyes of an artist. The ivies crawling up the walls by the door were actually pleasing enough, but not enough for nature as they crawl higher whenever the sky falls.

But then, if Vincent Van Gogh wanted to paint another piece of artwork, he needed to know what was the story in this mural of hers.

And when he did, she was pretty sure she saw a single tear fell off from his sorrowful eyes with a strong hint of sympathy.

Because he felt it too.

And she lets him, even after hundreds of years in the life she wished she could live in.

Because she knows the sadness is still here, with her and with him.

He could feel the unquestionable silence smothering him. He could hear the silence crying for help. He could feel the silence grasping his numb fingers, holding them to know what if feels like to be accompanied by the art of vivid colours instead of the contrast that was lonesome.

He felt all of that in just a moment and he was already a wreck all over again.

Sakura felt all of that every single day, and she was already used to it by then.

Every day she asks herself how her heart got so strong to handle all of this.

This solitude. This sadness. This fiction.