Forgotten Paths Sporking. Prologue
Aye, I'm sporking my own fiction, just to prove how bad it was.
Without further delay,
Forgotten Paths
Written by : Abdulrahman "Psyblade" Alomair
Is a person steered by fate? On the other hand, is a person a chooser?
Why did I start with this?
That question should not exist in the first place, as the matter eats itself; I always asked myself that, however, looking through Ielas’s eyes, I finally found my answer.
Way to go isolating readers who aren't as philosophic and/or interested.
First off, god created us, and by creating our minds, our thoughts came out to wonder, as that is the mind’s purpose.
Second off, that god knows how we think, from fact one, a builder will know all about his buildings, would he not?
Yes, he will, but why am I writing this?
Using the fact that god created us, and defiantly knows the way we think, the question of choosing and destiny, will now eat itself, not the divine philosophy behind it, but the mortal, and moral question behind it.
Using the fact that we may imply, like destiny, we may say, that a man is to be put before two choices, to choose a black belt, or to choose a white belt to a wedding is a good example…
Presuming that a person likes the color black, he will no doubt choose the black belt, put into account that there is no hidden motive behind the colors, just the person likes of them.
Now, to the philosophy behind it, God knows that this person would choose black, from two ways.
One, God created him, and knows what the person likes.
Two…that this is in the man’s destiny, to choose black, does that not entwine with the man’s likes? It does not.
Therefore, the mortal question many people like, whether a person is steered or put to choose should not exist…just like that.
Life is supposed to be simple, but we are just making it unbearable…ironic, but true. Taking the white belt, I know that…now I do.
I, on the other hand, just said something that should have been implied in the story.
Now the story begins.
With more ramblings.
It is so easy to hate the world, but it is not so easy to try to fix it.
It is so easy to blame time, and so hard to blame one’s self.
Why, is it because the good behind it?
Is doing good always hard, and bad always easy?
Writing good fiction is actually hard. Writing crap is easy.
Is it also hard to change? Alternatively, is it like my question before…time only will tell?
I sense change, but is the change it to the good or the bad?
Time only will tell.
And no reader count.
We all knew this day would come, we just didn’t expect it to come so soon…it was like a bullet shot fired at your back, a spear hurled at you when you least expected it…but what could I say? Fate, Destiny, many names, with one meaning…God wanted you to experience this.
You could expect…no, you could foresee men ranting, but how much do they know? Your would-be murderer could be your only hope in life tomorrow.
Humans are the strangest race that ever set foot on this earth.
I agree wholly.
Why, men are so strange, it is not appropriate for the word “weird” to exist in their vocabulary.
Politics, a treaty, back stabs the day after…no human could deny, and as a wise man said once:
“However wise you are, you cannot speak for the world.”
Maybe this is Oromis. (*Snicker*)
A certain human met my eye. He was troubled with things beyond his age, I had no choice but to do the forbidden to relive him, I looked at him…who knew that what was supposed to happen did not…
My power -like everything- has limits, and when I wanted to send his terrible experience to oblivion, he recalled it, so softly that I could not bear to erase it.
I lowered my head, looking down at my reflection on the waters I levitated upon, glaring at myself hardly, trying to ignore the teenager on his knees, I felt terrible inside…I made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. The worst is one who mistakes in another’s judgment.
Moreover, what I wanted to happen, reversed, is now lost between his memories that are now torn, and between the faint thought that it was a dream tortured him…
Not now…but then…when he meets the eye
What does that even mean?
Many of my kind learned not to regret the past…but tumbling down a hill of remorse, I knew I was wrong…
The worse…I did it out of sympathy.
The worse...I wrote this thinking it was awesome.
And I make fun of Paolini.
Now, into the story proper. The story gets gradually more...better as it progresses.
Without further delay,
Forgotten Paths
Written by : Abdulrahman "Psyblade" Alomair
Is a person steered by fate? On the other hand, is a person a chooser?
Why did I start with this?
That question should not exist in the first place, as the matter eats itself; I always asked myself that, however, looking through Ielas’s eyes, I finally found my answer.
Way to go isolating readers who aren't as philosophic and/or interested.
First off, god created us, and by creating our minds, our thoughts came out to wonder, as that is the mind’s purpose.
Second off, that god knows how we think, from fact one, a builder will know all about his buildings, would he not?
Yes, he will, but why am I writing this?
Using the fact that god created us, and defiantly knows the way we think, the question of choosing and destiny, will now eat itself, not the divine philosophy behind it, but the mortal, and moral question behind it.
Using the fact that we may imply, like destiny, we may say, that a man is to be put before two choices, to choose a black belt, or to choose a white belt to a wedding is a good example…
Presuming that a person likes the color black, he will no doubt choose the black belt, put into account that there is no hidden motive behind the colors, just the person likes of them.
Now, to the philosophy behind it, God knows that this person would choose black, from two ways.
One, God created him, and knows what the person likes.
Two…that this is in the man’s destiny, to choose black, does that not entwine with the man’s likes? It does not.
Therefore, the mortal question many people like, whether a person is steered or put to choose should not exist…just like that.
Life is supposed to be simple, but we are just making it unbearable…ironic, but true. Taking the white belt, I know that…now I do.
I, on the other hand, just said something that should have been implied in the story.
Now the story begins.
With more ramblings.
It is so easy to hate the world, but it is not so easy to try to fix it.
It is so easy to blame time, and so hard to blame one’s self.
Why, is it because the good behind it?
Is doing good always hard, and bad always easy?
Writing good fiction is actually hard. Writing crap is easy.
Is it also hard to change? Alternatively, is it like my question before…time only will tell?
I sense change, but is the change it to the good or the bad?
Time only will tell.
And no reader count.
We all knew this day would come, we just didn’t expect it to come so soon…it was like a bullet shot fired at your back, a spear hurled at you when you least expected it…but what could I say? Fate, Destiny, many names, with one meaning…God wanted you to experience this.
You could expect…no, you could foresee men ranting, but how much do they know? Your would-be murderer could be your only hope in life tomorrow.
Humans are the strangest race that ever set foot on this earth.
I agree wholly.
Why, men are so strange, it is not appropriate for the word “weird” to exist in their vocabulary.
Politics, a treaty, back stabs the day after…no human could deny, and as a wise man said once:
“However wise you are, you cannot speak for the world.”
Maybe this is Oromis. (*Snicker*)
A certain human met my eye. He was troubled with things beyond his age, I had no choice but to do the forbidden to relive him, I looked at him…who knew that what was supposed to happen did not…
My power -like everything- has limits, and when I wanted to send his terrible experience to oblivion, he recalled it, so softly that I could not bear to erase it.
I lowered my head, looking down at my reflection on the waters I levitated upon, glaring at myself hardly, trying to ignore the teenager on his knees, I felt terrible inside…I made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. The worst is one who mistakes in another’s judgment.
Moreover, what I wanted to happen, reversed, is now lost between his memories that are now torn, and between the faint thought that it was a dream tortured him…
Not now…but then…when he meets the eye
What does that even mean?
Many of my kind learned not to regret the past…but tumbling down a hill of remorse, I knew I was wrong…
The worse…I did it out of sympathy.
The worse...I wrote this thinking it was awesome.
And I make fun of Paolini.
Now, into the story proper. The story gets gradually more...better as it progresses.