(no subject)
The rain echoes so much today. It is a fuzy haze of mist as time seems to slow to a grinding halt. If one tries to take the time to simply stare for a moment at what goes by, one can probably see the fearies, angels and monsters that run through the world. It is calming as it is disturbing, but I'd rather stay with the first as my eyes settle upon the scenes.
I reached for the window, reminiscing about the past, and images appeared before me. Yet, despite their familiarity, I couldn't feel anything for them, but a contentment that whatever future held for those simulacrums, that they were better off. And then I thought of writing, and the empty books that stand before me did not seem to be true to the words I wanted them to contain, so instead I touched upon some keys and applied the words here.
Blasphemy I daresay, for all the things I've written to date. Stories of gnomish illusionists crawl through my head, and women of great stature and might in their own right. Weaving a tale I enjoy, however grandiose are my words. I ramble on it's true. Ongoing sentences which senses just are not true. I have to stop using big words, for writing as an intellectual is seemingly unheard, when you've formed the idea that you are the sunshine that exists in a word of grey, when truthfully you are more a lightbright, with colours on black.
I reached for the window, reminiscing about the past, and images appeared before me. Yet, despite their familiarity, I couldn't feel anything for them, but a contentment that whatever future held for those simulacrums, that they were better off. And then I thought of writing, and the empty books that stand before me did not seem to be true to the words I wanted them to contain, so instead I touched upon some keys and applied the words here.
Blasphemy I daresay, for all the things I've written to date. Stories of gnomish illusionists crawl through my head, and women of great stature and might in their own right. Weaving a tale I enjoy, however grandiose are my words. I ramble on it's true. Ongoing sentences which senses just are not true. I have to stop using big words, for writing as an intellectual is seemingly unheard, when you've formed the idea that you are the sunshine that exists in a word of grey, when truthfully you are more a lightbright, with colours on black.