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"Circular Complaints: A Well-Worn Coin"

It’s that strange thing - like when teacher are away from school, it’s all they talk about.
Such is it here - away from life, it’s all you can think about.

And so I walk, along the narrow rock summit, past those who have risen with me. But they just stare, blank-eyed, back into the dark, cool waters - crouched at the edge of the island, peering onwards.
Freedom has its regrets - this much is obvious.

A description, I think.
This rock ledge. It’s not even rock, I don’t think - more like salt, baked dry by the red sun above. Just a narrow strip of salt, forced up into razor-sharp ridges, stretching to nowhere.
And those waters - the clinging, suffocating waters lap against the sharp salt, inviting to those who know no better.

But I walk? Yes, that movement conveys, I hope, the unrest of my mind.
As I search deeper and further, twisting into tighter circles, for the words to express.
New words, that is. I’ve expressed, mostly exaggeration - expression alone leaves that dull, copper taste in the mouth. Only the exaggeration brings out the sweet connecting line others hook onto.

But the expression will fade, I’m sure.
A memory of this glaring teen angst, so crude and shameless, as the shadow settles slowly over the world. The discomfort with the darkness - transition to accept it, as others do (more quietly, I’m sure - without such circular complaints) - then the aching retrospect, the one-eyed stare forward into the meaningless distant.

Lost it there. Again, back on this salt ridge, ambling by the crouching, huddled lumps, staring back on what was - or what might be. It’s so hard to tell, with all the scratched repeats.

Skimming stones is one of those things - slightly addictive, and wonderful in its own right. Just wondering on the shore, scouring for the perfect shape.
The skips mean nothing, yet a goal is there - and you strive for it, in yourself, as the sun sinks down below the water line - and you’re called home again.

Thus I spin one off, into the ever-stretching, red-tinged waters away from the ridge.
Seconds later, the same stone sinks into the salt behind me. See? A circle - again - the circular complaints of the fading expression.

“Seventy-six.” The old man croaks.
The skips, of course - the ever-ripples nod back to him.
An air of mystery is always keen, and pleasant. And he provides it here - the only body to look into the sky, not down into the water. He stares at the sun, and burns it out with a rocked gaze the other stars cannot withstand.
As such, the red deepens, the sun decays beyond even that. Now lacking the light to set the moon-glow about.

And another body clambers from the water, onto the salt ridge.
They stare about - some lame metaphor for the new-born, the innocent self, before the darkness comes. And for that I apologise, but I press on.
Because this isn’t even for me. It was a promise, and such promises I keep. But, with the dark twinkle in my eyes, twist the promise back - and I feel, as always, this mindless blurb syphoning off the shadow.

The sharp salt ridges cut deep into my bare feet.
The soles, my soul (of course), and bleed out into life - the waters, those still, lapping waters of my life. The red stain fades quickly, though, and is eclipsed as always by the sun.
The death of the sun is key to all.
The connections run through - I don’t even know how. In all honesty, it just sounded good, but now has adapted itself (twisted away from me, now) into something else.

So - with a sigh - I throw myself back into the waters.
It always has to end. A page holds only so many lines.

At first, it shocks - the cold - and freezes what has thawed.
But I’m dragged deeper, and eventually, the cleansing water fills the cracks the dead sun produced.
The welts die down, dyed that green only the sea can show.
The shadow conquers what is left.

Done.

:¬D

I've just gotta write things to get it off my chest.

True story.

Yar - me too.
I hate the whole 'know your audience' thingy. Like when I did my A-Level English Lang. coursework.

"So ... what's the audience? You've got nothing down here."

"Er .... me?"

"No, you can't put that. Who'd you write it for?'

"Er ... me?

"NO BIZATCH! BLEED, YOU WHØRE!"*

* slight exaggeration.

I write to myself, positively, I don't really care what the audience has got to say (Well, only you twinkle toes). If I did, they'd make sense.

http://ukchatforums.reserve.co.uk/display_messages.php? threadid=99211&forumid=423

http://ukchatforums.reserve.co.uk/display_messages.php? threadid=99209&forumid=4006

I did actually.
Come back here.

The kind-of direct speech to the audience, and awareness of what melodramtic tripe you're producing.
I rather like it.

And for future references, it's my style.
Aha.

You used a bit of "my" style did you not?

*Runs*

Mmm. I was your inspiritation. Boosh!

Heh, I haven't seen Father Ted for ages.

Silly moo.

So it was?
Someone's been watching Father Ted too much.

Anytime.
I rather enjoyed it.

...

Was it good for you?

FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
"Thus I spin one off, into the ever-stretching, red-tinged waters away
from the ridge.
Seconds later, the same stone sinks into the salt behind me. See? A
circle - again - the circular complaints of the fading expression.


Because this isn’t even for me. It was a promise, and such promises I
keep. But, with the dark twinkle in my eyes, twist the promise back -
and I feel, as always, this mindless blurb syphoning off the shadow."

---------------

I was mentioned! :¬D

Woo hoo hoo hoo babey.

Now I'm on the receiving end. Do another, anytime you want darrrlin.

T'was a delight so it was.

It’s that strange thing - like when teacher are away from school, it’s all they talk about.
Such is it here - away from life, it’s all you can think about.

And so I walk, along the narrow rock summit, past those who have risen with me. But they just stare, blank-eyed, back into the dark, cool waters - crouched at the edge of the island, peering onwards.
Freedom has its regrets - this much is obvious.

A description, I think.
This rock ledge. It’s not even rock, I don’t think - more like salt, baked dry by the red sun above. Just a narrow strip of salt, forced up into razor-sharp ridges, stretching to nowhere.
And those waters - the clinging, suffocating waters lap against the sharp salt, inviting to those who know no better.

But I walk? Yes, that movement conveys, I hope, the unrest of my mind.
As I search deeper and further, twisting into tighter circles, for the words to express.
New words, that is. I’ve expressed, mostly exaggeration - expression alone leaves that dull, copper taste in the mouth. Only the exaggeration brings out the sweet connecting line others hook onto.

But the expression will fade, I’m sure.
A memory of this glaring teen angst, so crude and shameless, as the shadow settles slowly over the world. The discomfort with the darkness - transition to accept it, as others do (more quietly, I’m sure - without such circular complaints) - then the aching retrospect, the one-eyed stare forward into the meaningless distant.

Lost it there. Again, back on this salt ridge, ambling by the crouching, huddled lumps, staring back on what was - or what might be. It’s so hard to tell, with all the scratched repeats.

Skimming stones is one of those things - slightly addictive, and wonderful in its own right. Just wondering on the shore, scouring for the perfect shape.
The skips mean nothing, yet a goal is there - and you strive for it, in yourself, as the sun sinks down below the water line - and you’re called home again.

Thus I spin one off, into the ever-stretching, red-tinged waters away from the ridge.
Seconds later, the same stone sinks into the salt behind me. See? A circle - again - the circular complaints of the fading expression.

“Seventy-six.” The old man croaks.
The skips, of course - the ever-ripples nod back to him.
An air of mystery is always keen, and pleasant. And he provides it here - the only body to look into the sky, not down into the water. He stares at the sun, and burns it out with a rocked gaze the other stars cannot withstand.
As such, the red deepens, the sun decays beyond even that. Now lacking the light to set the moon-glow about.

And another body clambers from the water, onto the salt ridge.
They stare about - some lame metaphor for the new-born, the innocent self, before the darkness comes. And for that I apologise, but I press on.
Because this isn’t even for me. It was a promise, and such promises I keep. But, with the dark twinkle in my eyes, twist the promise back - and I feel, as always, this mindless blurb syphoning off the shadow.

The sharp salt ridges cut deep into my bare feet.
The soles, my soul (of course), and bleed out into life - the waters, those still, lapping waters of my life. The red stain fades quickly, though, and is eclipsed as always by the sun.
The death of the sun is key to all.
The connections run through - I don’t even know how. In all honesty, it just sounded good, but now has adapted itself (twisted away from me, now) into something else.

So - with a sigh - I throw myself back into the waters.
It always has to end. A page holds only so many lines.

At first, it shocks - the cold - and freezes what has thawed.
But I’m dragged deeper, and eventually, the cleansing water fills the cracks the dead sun produced.
The welts die down, dyed that green only the sea can show.
The shadow conquers what is left.

Done.