ZeroInteruppt
Junior Member
I still beleive in fairy tales. I really do.
Posts: 72
Likes: 57
Country: USA
Region: California
Ancestry: Marine Corps.
Politics: I refuse to classify
Hero: People who live deliberately
Age: Old soul
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Post by ZeroInteruppt on Jan 15, 2018 5:31:28 GMT
Each of us is a character in our own heads. We are all fighters, mages, clerics, damsels in distress, and heroes with magic swords sworn to protect the land. We see ourselves in these roles throughout the procession of the day. Living, laughing, having sex....we see each of us as heroes, and villains. For some, this is mere delusion. It becomes an escape from the banality of life, or perhaps the exquisite torture of a single moment. It is what propels our dreams, or gives flight to the realm of nightmares.
He stood upon the banks staring. His eyes fixed upon the horizon he gazed upon the stillness and waited. It was a river of blood, a slow cacophony who's tenor was the sound of razors through flesh.
"What world am I in?" He stated this as a mere fact. There was no question, no entreaty to the world around him to give an answer. The sounds of the bleeding echoed through him as he strode forward. And rather than the torment he thought it would give him, instead it gave semblance to the world he saw.
It was an insult to the world that he had perceived before, full of the misery and malcontent he had strove against all his life. He was, a soldier. Not full of the regalia some might suspect, but a warder of the little things. The little slights, and little problems. It was a position that he respected, and held himself to. He would march on his streets like a general would the battlements of the field. He would live his life according to the code, the balance that he saw was necessary. And like that self-same general, he would perceive his enemies, and lay waste to all the little problems.
Now his world, was not the same. It was tepid and cruel, full of vulgarity and pestilence. With no sword, nor shield, nor gun he walked. Step by step he went into the maelstrom. a blank look upon his face. There was such chaos here, it was like the laughter of a dying child; It was mournful and morose, dark and tremulous. And step, by step with his armour of fear surrounding him he kept pace. He saw a son grinning, while being teased at school. He saw a daughter laughing as she made lie after lie. He saw a wife smiling, as she kissed another man. He saw a reflection of himself, as he lay dying. But here and there were other things.
There were snippets of light in the reaches, little candles that held hope. So he gathered to them, a moth of the sun, keeping the gallery of sins away. He clung like the dying man that he was, and did his best to hold them close. Dying, running, yalping at the flesh around him he barreled through the city. With breath unfurled he screamed to the world, "I shall hurt no more!" And as the bard once said, it was "a tale told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2018 20:16:21 GMT
Each of us is a character in our own heads. We are all fighters, mages, clerics, damsels in distress, and heroes with magic swords sworn to protect the land. We see ourselves in these roles throughout the procession of the day. Living, laughing, having sex....we see each of us as heroes, and villains. For some, this is mere delusion. It becomes an escape from the banality of life, or perhaps the exquisite torture of a single moment. It is what propels our dreams, or gives flight to the realm of nightmares. He stood upon the banks staring. His eyes fixed upon the horizon he gazed upon the stillness and waited. It was a river of blood, a slow cacophony who's tenor was the sound of razors through flesh. "What world am I in?" He stated this as a mere fact. There was no question, no entreaty to the world around him to give an answer. The sounds of the bleeding echoed through him as he strode forward. And rather than the torment he thought it would give him, instead it gave semblance to the world he saw. It was an insult to the world that he had perceived before, full of the misery and malcontent he had strove against all his life. He was, a soldier. Not full of the regalia some might suspect, but a warder of the little things. The little slights, and little problems. It was a position that he respected, and held himself to. He would march on his streets like a general would the battlements of the field. He would live his life according to the code, the balance that he saw was necessary. And like that self-same general, he would perceive his enemies, and lay waste to all the little problems. Now his world, was not the same. It was tepid and cruel, full of vulgarity and pestilence. With no sword, nor shield, nor gun he walked. Step by step he went into the maelstrom. a blank look upon his face. There was such chaos here, it was like the laughter of a dying child; It was mournful and morose, dark and tremulous. And step, by step with his armour of fear surrounding him he kept pace. He saw a son grinning, while being teased at school. He saw a daughter laughing as she made lie after lie. He saw a wife smiling, as she kissed another man. He saw a reflection of himself, as he lay dying. But here and there were other things. There were snippets of light in the reaches, little candles that held hope. So he gathered to them, a moth of the sun, keeping the gallery of sins away. He clung like the dying man that he was, and did his best to hold them close. Dying, running, yalping at the flesh around him he barreled through the city. With breath unfurled he screamed to the world, "I shall hurt no more!" And as the bard once said, it was "a tale told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Well, it is a problem of identification. I don't think this idea - of tieing ourselves to someone - is necessary. Why? Let's imagine that there is no man. At all. So, to whom you would be like? Or the more important question - from where all the shapes are coming if each of us identified themeselves to the thing? If this theory was right, then would be just a few characters, no more.
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ZeroInteruppt
Junior Member
I still beleive in fairy tales. I really do.
Posts: 72
Likes: 57
Country: USA
Region: California
Ancestry: Marine Corps.
Politics: I refuse to classify
Hero: People who live deliberately
Age: Old soul
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Post by ZeroInteruppt on Jan 17, 2018 1:36:45 GMT
Each of us is a character in our own heads. We are all fighters, mages, clerics, damsels in distress, and heroes with magic swords sworn to protect the land. We see ourselves in these roles throughout the procession of the day. Living, laughing, having sex....we see each of us as heroes, and villains. For some, this is mere delusion. It becomes an escape from the banality of life, or perhaps the exquisite torture of a single moment. It is what propels our dreams, or gives flight to the realm of nightmares. He stood upon the banks staring. His eyes fixed upon the horizon he gazed upon the stillness and waited. It was a river of blood, a slow cacophony who's tenor was the sound of razors through flesh. "What world am I in?" He stated this as a mere fact. There was no question, no entreaty to the world around him to give an answer. The sounds of the bleeding echoed through him as he strode forward. And rather than the torment he thought it would give him, instead it gave semblance to the world he saw. It was an insult to the world that he had perceived before, full of the misery and malcontent he had strove against all his life. He was, a soldier. Not full of the regalia some might suspect, but a warder of the little things. The little slights, and little problems. It was a position that he respected, and held himself to. He would march on his streets like a general would the battlements of the field. He would live his life according to the code, the balance that he saw was necessary. And like that self-same general, he would perceive his enemies, and lay waste to all the little problems. Now his world, was not the same. It was tepid and cruel, full of vulgarity and pestilence. With no sword, nor shield, nor gun he walked. Step by step he went into the maelstrom. a blank look upon his face. There was such chaos here, it was like the laughter of a dying child; It was mournful and morose, dark and tremulous. And step, by step with his armour of fear surrounding him he kept pace. He saw a son grinning, while being teased at school. He saw a daughter laughing as she made lie after lie. He saw a wife smiling, as she kissed another man. He saw a reflection of himself, as he lay dying. But here and there were other things. There were snippets of light in the reaches, little candles that held hope. So he gathered to them, a moth of the sun, keeping the gallery of sins away. He clung like the dying man that he was, and did his best to hold them close. Dying, running, yalping at the flesh around him he barreled through the city. With breath unfurled he screamed to the world, "I shall hurt no more!" And as the bard once said, it was "a tale told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Well, it is a problem of identification. I don't think this idea - of tieing ourselves to someone - is necessary. Why? Let's imagine that there is no man. At all. So, to whom you would be like? Or the more important question - from where all the shapes are coming if each of us identified themeselves to the thing? If this theory was right, then would be just a few characters, no more. This was really an experiment on my side for a style of writing that I enjoy didn't mean anything specific but thanks for the input.
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