Aha! Chapter five. This is officially the longest story I have ever
written. Well, I /am/ new at this. This story is not just to show off what
I call my poetry skills, I swear-it's all tied in. Sorry that it's not
much story, but hey, poems are good, too. And the beginning quote? I have
/no/ idea who said it.
"Many ingenious lovely things are gone
That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude."
A pen and paper. All he needed was a pen and paper, dammit! Or.something!
An odd sort of inspiration had come to that day. He had never been much of a poet. Oh, he dabbled, and he read quite a bit of it, but never had sheer inspiration hit him so much he just /needed/ to /write!/ He searched frantically through piles of clutter and resolved for the millionth time he would organize his desk. But finally he was able to scrounge up some ink and a few sheets of paper. Immediately he scribbled down a few words.
I have left something behind.
It may not be material.
It may not be conceivable
It may not be retrievable
I don't know.
Now..where did that come from? Oh well. Sometimes he never really thought about what he wrote, and when he tried, there was a struggle between sheer inspiration and logic.
He finished his scrawling and sat back to read it. It didn't make any sense to him. He sighed in frustration. Maybe he could find some symbolism or something to it-some other time. He sighed and stuffed it into a drawer, where he would read it years later, disturbed by it's content.
"I have left something behind.
It may not be material.
It may not be conceivable
It may not be retrievable
I don't know.
It's the feeling you get
To wake up with a hollow heart
And a tired soul
I have left something behind
Maybe a lifetime
Maybe these lives I have lived
Lived so long that I grow tired
Feeling hollow in the morning
So weary of another soul
Infested in my heart
I live these lives
I know no greater pain nor mirth
Then with these souls I play
Masquerade for moments at a time
They become more real then I
I, their channel
I, their voices
They, my escape
They, my downfall
They are me."
"Many ingenious lovely things are gone
That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude."
A pen and paper. All he needed was a pen and paper, dammit! Or.something!
An odd sort of inspiration had come to that day. He had never been much of a poet. Oh, he dabbled, and he read quite a bit of it, but never had sheer inspiration hit him so much he just /needed/ to /write!/ He searched frantically through piles of clutter and resolved for the millionth time he would organize his desk. But finally he was able to scrounge up some ink and a few sheets of paper. Immediately he scribbled down a few words.
I have left something behind.
It may not be material.
It may not be conceivable
It may not be retrievable
I don't know.
Now..where did that come from? Oh well. Sometimes he never really thought about what he wrote, and when he tried, there was a struggle between sheer inspiration and logic.
He finished his scrawling and sat back to read it. It didn't make any sense to him. He sighed in frustration. Maybe he could find some symbolism or something to it-some other time. He sighed and stuffed it into a drawer, where he would read it years later, disturbed by it's content.
"I have left something behind.
It may not be material.
It may not be conceivable
It may not be retrievable
I don't know.
It's the feeling you get
To wake up with a hollow heart
And a tired soul
I have left something behind
Maybe a lifetime
Maybe these lives I have lived
Lived so long that I grow tired
Feeling hollow in the morning
So weary of another soul
Infested in my heart
I live these lives
I know no greater pain nor mirth
Then with these souls I play
Masquerade for moments at a time
They become more real then I
I, their channel
I, their voices
They, my escape
They, my downfall
They are me."