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“Everything is relative. Think about it, every single thing is connected by the three vital principles of modern living; life, death and money. It is rather tricky to find any creature, item or obscure curiosity that cannot be grouped in one of those three categories.”
The room fell quiet and my buxom wife smiled up at me from the bed. “I don’t understand what you mean darling but it was awfully nice hearing it”
This was this thing that really got to me. Knowing that I was to spend my life with this vivacious lady who had the intellect of a shoe and couldn’t fathom even the faintest understanding of any of my theories. I considered myself a philosopher, and as my lady wife often said I spent more time thinking about things than actually doing them. My trade was woodcraft but I spent precious little time carving or sawing, I much preferred to sit on the cliffs and ponder the meaning of life, religion and other such enriching matters.
My village, alas, my country does not understand my theories, but would smile blankly and tell me it was a nice story none the less. I travelled with my books of theorems to visit King James in London but he scratched his head and grimaced as he failed to read past the first line. I fear a great intellect is my burden, I feel quite alone in the world with nobody to impress and no great heights to aspire to. I am the great height of my time and nothing is driving me on but curiosity itself.
I have, bundled in a red leather bound book, theories of evolution and humanity, views on religion and politics, of law and crime, mathematics and science and of time and space. But one fine day, perched on the edge of the cliffs pondering existence and all its elements I was struck like lightning with a long overdue epiphany. That it wasn’t being understood now that mattered and philosophising life was nowhere near as important as living it. I dashed home to my sweet lady wife and ravaged her on the kitchen table, much to her delight.
Three years later and I feel complete. I still read my theories from time to time, but only as bedtime stories to my young son, Isaac, who seems to enjoy listening to my theories as much as he enjoys watching the apple tree in the garden. Some day I think he may follow in my philosophising footsteps and some day introduce a theory that changes the way people think about the world, then again perhaps not.
I still sit atop the cliffs some days, gazing out to see. Though I no longer ponder the workings of humanity, instead I paint the beautiful views. The crimson sky and the flock of seagulls nesting in the cliff tops, the fishing boats heading home after a hard days work, and just sometimes a marlin leaping out of the water and basking for precious few seconds in the late afternoon sun before plunging back into the deep.
I head home each night each night and kiss my lady wife tenderly on the cheek. Knowing that I was to spend my life with this vivacious lady who doesn’t have the faintest understanding of my dormant theories brings a smile to my face. Say what you like; that love is blind or perhaps that opposites attract, all I know is that I am happy and the matter doesn’t need to be pondered any more.
The room fell quiet and my buxom wife smiled up at me from the bed. “I don’t understand what you mean darling but it was awfully nice hearing it”
This was this thing that really got to me. Knowing that I was to spend my life with this vivacious lady who had the intellect of a shoe and couldn’t fathom even the faintest understanding of any of my theories. I considered myself a philosopher, and as my lady wife often said I spent more time thinking about things than actually doing them. My trade was woodcraft but I spent precious little time carving or sawing, I much preferred to sit on the cliffs and ponder the meaning of life, religion and other such enriching matters.
My village, alas, my country does not understand my theories, but would smile blankly and tell me it was a nice story none the less. I travelled with my books of theorems to visit King James in London but he scratched his head and grimaced as he failed to read past the first line. I fear a great intellect is my burden, I feel quite alone in the world with nobody to impress and no great heights to aspire to. I am the great height of my time and nothing is driving me on but curiosity itself.
I have, bundled in a red leather bound book, theories of evolution and humanity, views on religion and politics, of law and crime, mathematics and science and of time and space. But one fine day, perched on the edge of the cliffs pondering existence and all its elements I was struck like lightning with a long overdue epiphany. That it wasn’t being understood now that mattered and philosophising life was nowhere near as important as living it. I dashed home to my sweet lady wife and ravaged her on the kitchen table, much to her delight.
Three years later and I feel complete. I still read my theories from time to time, but only as bedtime stories to my young son, Isaac, who seems to enjoy listening to my theories as much as he enjoys watching the apple tree in the garden. Some day I think he may follow in my philosophising footsteps and some day introduce a theory that changes the way people think about the world, then again perhaps not.
I still sit atop the cliffs some days, gazing out to see. Though I no longer ponder the workings of humanity, instead I paint the beautiful views. The crimson sky and the flock of seagulls nesting in the cliff tops, the fishing boats heading home after a hard days work, and just sometimes a marlin leaping out of the water and basking for precious few seconds in the late afternoon sun before plunging back into the deep.
I head home each night each night and kiss my lady wife tenderly on the cheek. Knowing that I was to spend my life with this vivacious lady who doesn’t have the faintest understanding of my dormant theories brings a smile to my face. Say what you like; that love is blind or perhaps that opposites attract, all I know is that I am happy and the matter doesn’t need to be pondered any more.
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mattributé wrote:
> Damn my grammar.
What's your grandma doing writing things for you anyway?
Sorry.
> Damn my grammar.
What's your grandma doing writing things for you anyway?
Sorry.
True fact - I never read over my stories.
I always post things "raw" as it were, to get critique on my base product, and then rework it based on audience comments as well as my own opinions. If I over-edit too much I fear the end product will be cut down too much, or perhaps not flow as well as the original, as I tend to write ideas as they come, and as such they tend to flow somewhat seamlessly, I hope.
I should've said stupidity rather than stupidness.
Damn my grammar.
Damn my grammar.
Very nice indeed.
Well done on the GAD. :-)
Well done on the GAD. :-)
mattributé wrote:
> Then you spoilt it. You spoilt it all with 1 or 2 lines of
> stupidness. Subtlety is not your forté, is it?
Nope :-)
> Then you spoilt it. You spoilt it all with 1 or 2 lines of
> stupidness. Subtlety is not your forté, is it?
Nope :-)
Nice...
How do you come up with these?
How do you come up with these?
Paradox wrote:
> Some day I think he may follow in my
> philosophising footsteps and some day introduce a theory that changes
> the way people think about the world, then again perhaps not.
It was brilliant, and, in Ashs words - innocent, in a twisted sense. From the start I had the picture of a French village in my head for whatever reason, and it all felt rather quaint.
Then you spoilt it. You spoilt it all with 1 or 2 lines of stupidness. Subtlety is not your forté, is it?
> Some day I think he may follow in my
> philosophising footsteps and some day introduce a theory that changes
> the way people think about the world, then again perhaps not.
It was brilliant, and, in Ashs words - innocent, in a twisted sense. From the start I had the picture of a French village in my head for whatever reason, and it all felt rather quaint.
Then you spoilt it. You spoilt it all with 1 or 2 lines of stupidness. Subtlety is not your forté, is it?
Thanks a lot for the GAD and for the lovelly feedback.
I think this "Nice" style of writing goes down a lot better than the "blood, guts and dead things" I am usually conscribed to. Perhaps I shall revert my literary ways. Cheers.
I think this "Nice" style of writing goes down a lot better than the "blood, guts and dead things" I am usually conscribed to. Perhaps I shall revert my literary ways. Cheers.
Yes, a very great story, Gongrats on your GAD win too.
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