Hello! I'm using this for the Nanowrimo contest. This will be mulichaptered and I'll update often. Each chapter will have a new narrator, and none will be official companions. I'll take ideas for them, though.
The "Mad man with a box". The "Oncoming Storm." All truly eloquent titles, but there was more than that. Yes, he was mad, loony even. But he might be the sanest person out there. All the grief, all the rage, all the guilt was surely eating him. Yet, the loneliness, the responsibility,the courage had numbed him. He could be level-headed. He was not an oncoming storm. He might have thundered, but he also snow flaked, in both a metaphorical and literal sense. For he was truly the last of his kind, a unique specimen of the universe, but aren't we all? All our lives, all our stories. He showed me that. He showed me many things.
He came in a navy chariot that pulled him along the stars. No, he was the stars. He shone and gave off light which produced new meanings of the world. He bumbled and sashayed, always so sure, yet selfconcious. He had reason to be, of course. There was no use to be in denial. He was a killer. But it was a mere layer, one of the many façades he would use.
You never knew which mask it would be. Shall he be cold and heartless? Shall he be generous and benevolent? Shall he be witty and fast- paced? All were lies. Yes, they had truths, truths anyone could see. But that was what he was. Layers of lies and truths, questions and answers, riddles and mysteries and enigmas all together.
I did not blame him. As a poet by nature, I understood the complexities of man. The dreams that leave you sobbing, gasping for breath, hoping that someone, anyone would please save you from yourself. The icy rush as you watch, sneering at your enemy, knowing that they would want death, but do not deserve it. The numbing loss as you gaze upon your lover knowing that life is but a breath, you cannot save her. He has bared witness to many of these events, slightly altered, but always the same. Always unavoidable, no matter how far he runs.
He can run to the universe and back, his master is his mind, the slave: it also. But no matter the distance, no matter the date, he shall still fall into the many repeated pattern.
It is a wonder, why does he do this? Why does he love to only lose, run to only come back, build to only destroy? Alas, I am but a poet, I shall never know.