legend

I hate how the music of others and the poetry of others brings me back to black paper.
I'm so out of practice that I don't even dare try. And instead I attempt to retreat to my addictions.
I'm so pathetic.

I remember glimpses of a fantasy world. A few characters... There was a land where a great magical catastrophe had turned a great expanse of land to ash. Completely leveled mountains and dried the rivers and that caused a large flat expanse that didn't absorb water very well and was cracked and dry most of the year.
A fat man would travel this expanse regularly. He was rich and had slaves that he worked hard, but didn't abuse.

There was a very sick man who was tall and always very cold. He was a fugitive running from someone or something and with him traveled a little girl. A very special little girl that kept much of the sickness at bay. And so the sick man cared for her.

There was a great mountain with a gushing spring of hot water that coursed down the mountain hot as boiling water. Here was built a civilization of stone and aqueducts and great warriors. It was a matriarchy.


In another story there was a boy that escaped the real world into dream worlds.
The first time was while he was in PE and a much larger boy in his class decided to pit his anger at a petty loss on this scrawny dreamer. And while his hand was being bent backwards so fiercely that the skin ripped and the fingers bled he found himself in a clock tower with illusion built walls. Walls that told what happened and showed so many other things.
The next time was on a valentines day when he asked a girl to an early spring dance and she not only said no but purposely humiliated him in front of everyone. His vision tunneled and he found himself on a path in the snow. He dared to walk forward but didn't move. Instead his own footprints were impressed upon the snow. He tried to run but was still rooted in place and the impressions only ran farther from him. He looked down and realized he didn't exist.
But eventually he had to return to the real world.



Eventually we all have to right?

Oh... I wish I could write with substance again. The sound of the keyboard is relaxing to my unstable mind.
But I have no stock iron with which to forge.

my stories are burned out



stay beautiful