Whee?
Whee... I have good news and bad. Bad news, no work on story type stuff, good news, the Culture through Architecture course professor is giving me a free drawing kit complete with colored pencils, so given time I'll have some pics for this story instead of just fancy words and confusing dialogue. Bad news, don't expect any time soon.
Ok, and on the completely unrelated topics, some random emo-ish poetry in reference to... well, I think those of you who know can guess, and those of you who don't STFU.
Slip the bonds. Flow with the subconsious. Gravity. Physics. Breathing. Unneccesary. I surrender my limbs. Accept the darkness. With it comes a new type of light. A new world. Is the human mind built to be in this free flowing world, or do rules exist to prevent forms of insanity? Dreams differ from person to person, as does how they view it. The music livens my world, gives a noise to the darkness, and then a form. Shapes the thoughts to make one form new ideas. I am on the floor. Is this the world of dreams? I stand. Is this real? I get dressed. But I'm in my bed. Is this real? I return to sleep, or do I wake. I'm sitting. I'm stone. Nothing feels, nothing moves. Cold? no, a cold warmth. Light? No. No light. Why do even now I feel the need to move arms that don't exist? Light. The arms do exist. But they still won't move. A hand inches from me facing away. Is it mine? Yes. I remember that scar. Another hand. Is it mine? No? Am I still dreaming? If not, move hand. Make mine move likewise. Shake loose the bonds on me. Are you bonded too? Whose hand is that? Right, like the other. No scars... Whose? Whose? Am I dreaming? Or is this hand also still asleep? Scream! no noise... listen... no sound. Feel... what? Look around. The view doesn't change. Do something... scratch my nose... I move my hand the hand before me, but the hand doesn't move. Is this real? Am I still asleep? Breathe... More... Can't. I accept. I'm still asleep. The blackness returns, and I watch the dreams unfold.
No, it's not supposed to be real poetry. There's no existing meter. And don't ask me to put one in, I'm a little inexplicably cranky. Maybe something I ate.
Ok, and on the completely unrelated topics, some random emo-ish poetry in reference to... well, I think those of you who know can guess, and those of you who don't STFU.
Slip the bonds. Flow with the subconsious. Gravity. Physics. Breathing. Unneccesary. I surrender my limbs. Accept the darkness. With it comes a new type of light. A new world. Is the human mind built to be in this free flowing world, or do rules exist to prevent forms of insanity? Dreams differ from person to person, as does how they view it. The music livens my world, gives a noise to the darkness, and then a form. Shapes the thoughts to make one form new ideas. I am on the floor. Is this the world of dreams? I stand. Is this real? I get dressed. But I'm in my bed. Is this real? I return to sleep, or do I wake. I'm sitting. I'm stone. Nothing feels, nothing moves. Cold? no, a cold warmth. Light? No. No light. Why do even now I feel the need to move arms that don't exist? Light. The arms do exist. But they still won't move. A hand inches from me facing away. Is it mine? Yes. I remember that scar. Another hand. Is it mine? No? Am I still dreaming? If not, move hand. Make mine move likewise. Shake loose the bonds on me. Are you bonded too? Whose hand is that? Right, like the other. No scars... Whose? Whose? Am I dreaming? Or is this hand also still asleep? Scream! no noise... listen... no sound. Feel... what? Look around. The view doesn't change. Do something... scratch my nose... I move my hand the hand before me, but the hand doesn't move. Is this real? Am I still asleep? Breathe... More... Can't. I accept. I'm still asleep. The blackness returns, and I watch the dreams unfold.
No, it's not supposed to be real poetry. There's no existing meter. And don't ask me to put one in, I'm a little inexplicably cranky. Maybe something I ate.