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A wide, rich, black void. Cluttered up with grief cast hastily about, stacks of despair dripping slowly to themselves - the blood from infinite broken hearts clotting out some kind of path among the pain. Winding, of course, and (of course) pointless - a circle, no less.
Carved around the knots and tumours, skirting the suicide with practised grace.
And around we walk - though the void reels out endlessly on either side, sign-posted by the concentrate of hate, and the stolen holes. The nit-pick, snuck, and clichéd taste - secreted away to bloom, rot and bloom again: fabric of the night - so, so terribly far from the light. To think, to hope that they just might re-snuck, re-sneak back to the black and haul us from this total lack.
Musn’t slip back into that again. One time, after one time again, prelude, prequel, present, sequel; then right into the lewd. Sit, tuck tight, and hope they never find you out.
A hundred thousand, thousand million, treading the path trod by ageless boots. Before creation, through strife, sunk clean through in the Civil War - until the whole, red-rimmed path is jammed four-feet down into the void. Sunk by tonnes and tonnes of wandering, tentative, noble souls - scouring in and out, screening the pile for scraps of death, straining to express second-hand emotion.
Each one of the swell as alone as the last - maybe we wouldn’t be so bloody lonely if we stopped being so bloody self-centred. And all you can focus on is the bloody.
Stumble around the ring-road of bleak - we are original, yes, yes we are. He’d never known pain like this - but the thing is, everyone else has; known it far too well.
Extreme exaggeration is the air, is the soul, is the night. It’s a staple, a stable atmosphere so enticing to the timid heart - go on, let it rip. We’ll never know pain like that, I’m sure.
So swaddled by the darkness - so whole-swallowed, so wreathed in languid suffocation - that the shadow darkens into itself, congeales into a single, sickly mass of collective thought. A case, a sheath ... a .... wait, wait. A shell.
And so pitch, so jet, that the void seems like spring, and the pain outside like the light within - a longing, gentle longing for release, for love and freedom. For a breeze, for brash palettes and simple brush-stroke purity.
We hatch.
It’s not pretty.
Out of the cloying, rotting, heaving mass we slither - wet strings of lacing angst in hair, clinging to shards of new-world doubt. The darkness heaves and spits - in a fury of limb and quickly-shattered sin we are out. Out, dripping darkness, stunned and slick, into the fresh, warm sunlight.
And we lie - of stillness, not untruths - just lie, softly, in the tender grass and let the golden rays burn away the pain - burn it all away with a gentle, healing flame. Such colour - blue and true, pure white - green and yellow, shade upon shade. Not the tiers of sodden grey, the tears of washed-out brown. This is clean-cut and new, happy, calm, bliss through the underplayed air.
It’s much closer here, no wasted space, no throwaway void - neat, compact, untouched. The sky bends round to meet the grass - a tight cylinder stretching wonderfully away. Another circle, now mapped out with trees and shoots, gentle-blossom falls and unfearing fauns - and tilted into white, so now we can walk through it, not around, into even fresher land.
Ah.
It’s so normal - you see, words are fewer. Not because they lack, but because they’re not needed.
We all know this, this crisp slice of bliss.
Pure. Real
Love rests in the branches, hope in the soil, life in the gentle light.
And along we walk, alive again under vibrant skies. The simple world joy to black-gauzed eyes.
But out of the void sneaks a nasty surprise. Behind us, the trees cast painful shadows, the birds cry mocking calls, and the wind blows bitter ice. Into this world the darkness creeps - so, so easily the darkness regains - the infinite void as quickly explained, and the holes not stolen but shattered havens, strung out and captured along the way.
Run, we run. Away from the shell that hatched us, that now tears at our new home. We run, as far into the colour as we can, and try to sustain the fragile world - the beauty so delicate against such stark, biting, renting dark.
We flee, and hope as the hope withers around, that somehow the light will stay close, stay strong against the shadow. But even as we run we know, we cannot run forever. Eventually - and soon, far, far too soon - we’ll stop, exhausted, and turn around.
The void wants us back. The easy way out.
Carved around the knots and tumours, skirting the suicide with practised grace.
And around we walk - though the void reels out endlessly on either side, sign-posted by the concentrate of hate, and the stolen holes. The nit-pick, snuck, and clichéd taste - secreted away to bloom, rot and bloom again: fabric of the night - so, so terribly far from the light. To think, to hope that they just might re-snuck, re-sneak back to the black and haul us from this total lack.
Musn’t slip back into that again. One time, after one time again, prelude, prequel, present, sequel; then right into the lewd. Sit, tuck tight, and hope they never find you out.
A hundred thousand, thousand million, treading the path trod by ageless boots. Before creation, through strife, sunk clean through in the Civil War - until the whole, red-rimmed path is jammed four-feet down into the void. Sunk by tonnes and tonnes of wandering, tentative, noble souls - scouring in and out, screening the pile for scraps of death, straining to express second-hand emotion.
Each one of the swell as alone as the last - maybe we wouldn’t be so bloody lonely if we stopped being so bloody self-centred. And all you can focus on is the bloody.
Stumble around the ring-road of bleak - we are original, yes, yes we are. He’d never known pain like this - but the thing is, everyone else has; known it far too well.
Extreme exaggeration is the air, is the soul, is the night. It’s a staple, a stable atmosphere so enticing to the timid heart - go on, let it rip. We’ll never know pain like that, I’m sure.
So swaddled by the darkness - so whole-swallowed, so wreathed in languid suffocation - that the shadow darkens into itself, congeales into a single, sickly mass of collective thought. A case, a sheath ... a .... wait, wait. A shell.
And so pitch, so jet, that the void seems like spring, and the pain outside like the light within - a longing, gentle longing for release, for love and freedom. For a breeze, for brash palettes and simple brush-stroke purity.
We hatch.
It’s not pretty.
Out of the cloying, rotting, heaving mass we slither - wet strings of lacing angst in hair, clinging to shards of new-world doubt. The darkness heaves and spits - in a fury of limb and quickly-shattered sin we are out. Out, dripping darkness, stunned and slick, into the fresh, warm sunlight.
And we lie - of stillness, not untruths - just lie, softly, in the tender grass and let the golden rays burn away the pain - burn it all away with a gentle, healing flame. Such colour - blue and true, pure white - green and yellow, shade upon shade. Not the tiers of sodden grey, the tears of washed-out brown. This is clean-cut and new, happy, calm, bliss through the underplayed air.
It’s much closer here, no wasted space, no throwaway void - neat, compact, untouched. The sky bends round to meet the grass - a tight cylinder stretching wonderfully away. Another circle, now mapped out with trees and shoots, gentle-blossom falls and unfearing fauns - and tilted into white, so now we can walk through it, not around, into even fresher land.
Ah.
It’s so normal - you see, words are fewer. Not because they lack, but because they’re not needed.
We all know this, this crisp slice of bliss.
Pure. Real
Love rests in the branches, hope in the soil, life in the gentle light.
And along we walk, alive again under vibrant skies. The simple world joy to black-gauzed eyes.
But out of the void sneaks a nasty surprise. Behind us, the trees cast painful shadows, the birds cry mocking calls, and the wind blows bitter ice. Into this world the darkness creeps - so, so easily the darkness regains - the infinite void as quickly explained, and the holes not stolen but shattered havens, strung out and captured along the way.
Run, we run. Away from the shell that hatched us, that now tears at our new home. We run, as far into the colour as we can, and try to sustain the fragile world - the beauty so delicate against such stark, biting, renting dark.
We flee, and hope as the hope withers around, that somehow the light will stay close, stay strong against the shadow. But even as we run we know, we cannot run forever. Eventually - and soon, far, far too soon - we’ll stop, exhausted, and turn around.
The void wants us back. The easy way out.
Page:
Im really sorry but I couldnt read through it. lol. Maybe Im just not in the mood.
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Next time, something different.
Yes, please.
Get back to proper story writing.
> Next time, something different.
Yes, please.
Get back to proper story writing.
I agree with Rickoss (what happened to the other r?). Some nice imagery as always but I often lost it.
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Next time, something different.
Agreed. It's nice and stuff but I feel like I've read it before. Many times.
> Next time, something different.
Agreed. It's nice and stuff but I feel like I've read it before. Many times.
Cheers; but isn't it all a bit samey?
I'm getting the feeling that everything I write lately boils down to the same old stuff - even if I try to explain it, as here, the explaination comes out as everything else.
Gah.
Next time, something different.
I'm getting the feeling that everything I write lately boils down to the same old stuff - even if I try to explain it, as here, the explaination comes out as everything else.
Gah.
Next time, something different.
You built up some wonderful pictures in that story - I did ocassionaly lose them, distracted by some lovely ramblings or other.
Nice.
Nice.
A wide, rich, black void. Cluttered up with grief cast hastily about, stacks of despair dripping slowly to themselves - the blood from infinite broken hearts clotting out some kind of path among the pain. Winding, of course, and (of course) pointless - a circle, no less.
Carved around the knots and tumours, skirting the suicide with practised grace.
And around we walk - though the void reels out endlessly on either side, sign-posted by the concentrate of hate, and the stolen holes. The nit-pick, snuck, and clichéd taste - secreted away to bloom, rot and bloom again: fabric of the night - so, so terribly far from the light. To think, to hope that they just might re-snuck, re-sneak back to the black and haul us from this total lack.
Musn’t slip back into that again. One time, after one time again, prelude, prequel, present, sequel; then right into the lewd. Sit, tuck tight, and hope they never find you out.
A hundred thousand, thousand million, treading the path trod by ageless boots. Before creation, through strife, sunk clean through in the Civil War - until the whole, red-rimmed path is jammed four-feet down into the void. Sunk by tonnes and tonnes of wandering, tentative, noble souls - scouring in and out, screening the pile for scraps of death, straining to express second-hand emotion.
Each one of the swell as alone as the last - maybe we wouldn’t be so bloody lonely if we stopped being so bloody self-centred. And all you can focus on is the bloody.
Stumble around the ring-road of bleak - we are original, yes, yes we are. He’d never known pain like this - but the thing is, everyone else has; known it far too well.
Extreme exaggeration is the air, is the soul, is the night. It’s a staple, a stable atmosphere so enticing to the timid heart - go on, let it rip. We’ll never know pain like that, I’m sure.
So swaddled by the darkness - so whole-swallowed, so wreathed in languid suffocation - that the shadow darkens into itself, congeales into a single, sickly mass of collective thought. A case, a sheath ... a .... wait, wait. A shell.
And so pitch, so jet, that the void seems like spring, and the pain outside like the light within - a longing, gentle longing for release, for love and freedom. For a breeze, for brash palettes and simple brush-stroke purity.
We hatch.
It’s not pretty.
Out of the cloying, rotting, heaving mass we slither - wet strings of lacing angst in hair, clinging to shards of new-world doubt. The darkness heaves and spits - in a fury of limb and quickly-shattered sin we are out. Out, dripping darkness, stunned and slick, into the fresh, warm sunlight.
And we lie - of stillness, not untruths - just lie, softly, in the tender grass and let the golden rays burn away the pain - burn it all away with a gentle, healing flame. Such colour - blue and true, pure white - green and yellow, shade upon shade. Not the tiers of sodden grey, the tears of washed-out brown. This is clean-cut and new, happy, calm, bliss through the underplayed air.
It’s much closer here, no wasted space, no throwaway void - neat, compact, untouched. The sky bends round to meet the grass - a tight cylinder stretching wonderfully away. Another circle, now mapped out with trees and shoots, gentle-blossom falls and unfearing fauns - and tilted into white, so now we can walk through it, not around, into even fresher land.
Ah.
It’s so normal - you see, words are fewer. Not because they lack, but because they’re not needed.
We all know this, this crisp slice of bliss.
Pure. Real
Love rests in the branches, hope in the soil, life in the gentle light.
And along we walk, alive again under vibrant skies. The simple world joy to black-gauzed eyes.
But out of the void sneaks a nasty surprise. Behind us, the trees cast painful shadows, the birds cry mocking calls, and the wind blows bitter ice. Into this world the darkness creeps - so, so easily the darkness regains - the infinite void as quickly explained, and the holes not stolen but shattered havens, strung out and captured along the way.
Run, we run. Away from the shell that hatched us, that now tears at our new home. We run, as far into the colour as we can, and try to sustain the fragile world - the beauty so delicate against such stark, biting, renting dark.
We flee, and hope as the hope withers around, that somehow the light will stay close, stay strong against the shadow. But even as we run we know, we cannot run forever. Eventually - and soon, far, far too soon - we’ll stop, exhausted, and turn around.
The void wants us back. The easy way out.
Carved around the knots and tumours, skirting the suicide with practised grace.
And around we walk - though the void reels out endlessly on either side, sign-posted by the concentrate of hate, and the stolen holes. The nit-pick, snuck, and clichéd taste - secreted away to bloom, rot and bloom again: fabric of the night - so, so terribly far from the light. To think, to hope that they just might re-snuck, re-sneak back to the black and haul us from this total lack.
Musn’t slip back into that again. One time, after one time again, prelude, prequel, present, sequel; then right into the lewd. Sit, tuck tight, and hope they never find you out.
A hundred thousand, thousand million, treading the path trod by ageless boots. Before creation, through strife, sunk clean through in the Civil War - until the whole, red-rimmed path is jammed four-feet down into the void. Sunk by tonnes and tonnes of wandering, tentative, noble souls - scouring in and out, screening the pile for scraps of death, straining to express second-hand emotion.
Each one of the swell as alone as the last - maybe we wouldn’t be so bloody lonely if we stopped being so bloody self-centred. And all you can focus on is the bloody.
Stumble around the ring-road of bleak - we are original, yes, yes we are. He’d never known pain like this - but the thing is, everyone else has; known it far too well.
Extreme exaggeration is the air, is the soul, is the night. It’s a staple, a stable atmosphere so enticing to the timid heart - go on, let it rip. We’ll never know pain like that, I’m sure.
So swaddled by the darkness - so whole-swallowed, so wreathed in languid suffocation - that the shadow darkens into itself, congeales into a single, sickly mass of collective thought. A case, a sheath ... a .... wait, wait. A shell.
And so pitch, so jet, that the void seems like spring, and the pain outside like the light within - a longing, gentle longing for release, for love and freedom. For a breeze, for brash palettes and simple brush-stroke purity.
We hatch.
It’s not pretty.
Out of the cloying, rotting, heaving mass we slither - wet strings of lacing angst in hair, clinging to shards of new-world doubt. The darkness heaves and spits - in a fury of limb and quickly-shattered sin we are out. Out, dripping darkness, stunned and slick, into the fresh, warm sunlight.
And we lie - of stillness, not untruths - just lie, softly, in the tender grass and let the golden rays burn away the pain - burn it all away with a gentle, healing flame. Such colour - blue and true, pure white - green and yellow, shade upon shade. Not the tiers of sodden grey, the tears of washed-out brown. This is clean-cut and new, happy, calm, bliss through the underplayed air.
It’s much closer here, no wasted space, no throwaway void - neat, compact, untouched. The sky bends round to meet the grass - a tight cylinder stretching wonderfully away. Another circle, now mapped out with trees and shoots, gentle-blossom falls and unfearing fauns - and tilted into white, so now we can walk through it, not around, into even fresher land.
Ah.
It’s so normal - you see, words are fewer. Not because they lack, but because they’re not needed.
We all know this, this crisp slice of bliss.
Pure. Real
Love rests in the branches, hope in the soil, life in the gentle light.
And along we walk, alive again under vibrant skies. The simple world joy to black-gauzed eyes.
But out of the void sneaks a nasty surprise. Behind us, the trees cast painful shadows, the birds cry mocking calls, and the wind blows bitter ice. Into this world the darkness creeps - so, so easily the darkness regains - the infinite void as quickly explained, and the holes not stolen but shattered havens, strung out and captured along the way.
Run, we run. Away from the shell that hatched us, that now tears at our new home. We run, as far into the colour as we can, and try to sustain the fragile world - the beauty so delicate against such stark, biting, renting dark.
We flee, and hope as the hope withers around, that somehow the light will stay close, stay strong against the shadow. But even as we run we know, we cannot run forever. Eventually - and soon, far, far too soon - we’ll stop, exhausted, and turn around.
The void wants us back. The easy way out.
Page: