Attempting to revise, Sarah's bored, relief seeking eyes strayed to read:
1.1 The Writer
The best story of cause
Is the one you can't write
you can't write
you won't write
It's something that can only live
in your heart,
not on paper.
Paper is dry, flat.
Where is the soil
for the roots, and how do I lift out entire trees, a whole forest
from the earth of the spirit
and transplant it on paper
with out disturbing the birds?
And what about the mountains
on which these forests grow?
The waterfalls
making rivers,
rivers with throng of trees
elbowing each other aside
to have a look
at the fish.
Beneath the fish
there are the clouds.
Here the sky ripples,
the river thunders.
How would things move on paper?
Now watch the way
the tigers walking
shreds the paper.
And that, Sarah thought, sums it up perfectly. She could no longer find escape and find relief from /that/ feeling that had once driven her to act and dream. It festered her, making her want to scream and lash out at them.
How could her boring little mind hope to hold him?
Once, /once upon a time/, she had been a melancholy, moody teenager with not a care in the world. Just a perfect example of a fairy tale. A wicked stepmother. A soon to be ugly half-brother.
Perhaps that was it.
Oh she'd tried to get her little escapade out of her system. Scribbled till her arms dropped. Hummed /those/ tunes till she drove anyone that cared to be in the same room as her mad. But it was still within her, packed tight away in draws and boxes like a caged tiger.
How she had... received toys of the Labyrinth was a mystery. Lifeless lumps of artificial plastic. Surely /he/ wouldn't have? She had had them for all of her conscious memory, how would he have known? He wouldn't have, that's how.
"To much rejection
No love injection."
How had he known enough of her life to sing it?
"Strum out my pain with his words."
Maybe that was it. Maybe that way she could have been cleansed, able to live with out it consuming her.
It, him, Jareth. Even with italics they where such inadequate words to describe him. What a life force, what a man. He changed emotions more often than his clothes, how could a simple girl hope to read him?
Sarah shook her head as she switched out her light in a bid to sleep. He would need to much maintenance. Anyway she'd ignored him. What made her think his offer would still be standing, waiting just for her? Why should he? Not one damn reason that's what.
Despite the self-lectures, Sarah struggled to sleep with Jareth running round her mind.
Disclaimer: Labyrinth, me no own and the poem is by Sujata Bhatt. I like it, do you?
1.1 The Writer
The best story of cause
Is the one you can't write
you can't write
you won't write
It's something that can only live
in your heart,
not on paper.
Paper is dry, flat.
Where is the soil
for the roots, and how do I lift out entire trees, a whole forest
from the earth of the spirit
and transplant it on paper
with out disturbing the birds?
And what about the mountains
on which these forests grow?
The waterfalls
making rivers,
rivers with throng of trees
elbowing each other aside
to have a look
at the fish.
Beneath the fish
there are the clouds.
Here the sky ripples,
the river thunders.
How would things move on paper?
Now watch the way
the tigers walking
shreds the paper.
And that, Sarah thought, sums it up perfectly. She could no longer find escape and find relief from /that/ feeling that had once driven her to act and dream. It festered her, making her want to scream and lash out at them.
How could her boring little mind hope to hold him?
Once, /once upon a time/, she had been a melancholy, moody teenager with not a care in the world. Just a perfect example of a fairy tale. A wicked stepmother. A soon to be ugly half-brother.
Perhaps that was it.
Oh she'd tried to get her little escapade out of her system. Scribbled till her arms dropped. Hummed /those/ tunes till she drove anyone that cared to be in the same room as her mad. But it was still within her, packed tight away in draws and boxes like a caged tiger.
How she had... received toys of the Labyrinth was a mystery. Lifeless lumps of artificial plastic. Surely /he/ wouldn't have? She had had them for all of her conscious memory, how would he have known? He wouldn't have, that's how.
"To much rejection
No love injection."
How had he known enough of her life to sing it?
"Strum out my pain with his words."
Maybe that was it. Maybe that way she could have been cleansed, able to live with out it consuming her.
It, him, Jareth. Even with italics they where such inadequate words to describe him. What a life force, what a man. He changed emotions more often than his clothes, how could a simple girl hope to read him?
Sarah shook her head as she switched out her light in a bid to sleep. He would need to much maintenance. Anyway she'd ignored him. What made her think his offer would still be standing, waiting just for her? Why should he? Not one damn reason that's what.
Despite the self-lectures, Sarah struggled to sleep with Jareth running round her mind.
Disclaimer: Labyrinth, me no own and the poem is by Sujata Bhatt. I like it, do you?