A possible preface
*I needed to write something, whether it was good or bad. I don't care how this ends up, it is just the result of no revision, and no editing. I wrote until I stopped and posted what I had. I feel better now. If only I could continue on my original story, though.
Alone in a room, plain as youth, I sit and stare at blank white screens. A haunting melody flows from surrounding speakers, while there I attempt to concentrate by ignoring the sound. Images of myself and four friends, who shall never be forgotten, walk down a fictional street while my fingers rest upon the home row, awaiting instruction. The constant night of this street matches the real world on most occasions.
The images lurk behind me, as I send them perpetually walking down a street, which shall only be called Main Street. The backgrounds repeat, like those of an old animated chase scene, but in my head certain buildings, and streets are reached without explanation as to how the loop ceases. A magical street this is, for you may walk forever and never reach your destination, but always it is leading somewhere.
Words begin to flow in front of me, as I drift off into the other world, leaving my body as an empty shell for punching poetry. The four friends are faced to me, but faceless to those who read, for all have these four people in their life. And all have made, will make, or are making this particular stroll down the common street that leads to the infinite.
And while I sit here, creating words from passion, I wish not to be typing, nor dreaming. I wish to be outside, I wish to be walking down the real main street of my home town, gazing at the lights of buildings, and enjoying the night air. Life is different at night, it is clearer. We discover ourselves during the night, and make our best and worst choices as well. We all are no strangers to the night, for we dream in darkness, with stars glowing above our heads. The late train to NYC glides smoothly along the track. I wish I were on it.
The music of a dead artist now vibrates my ear drum. I picture the stab wounds, his heart pierced. One with true courage, who used it in his music, changing lives with beauty; but also wasting it on the end of his own life. To my right, a window is open, allowing the music to escape into the night, into my paradise. An apple tree stands far away, with the forbidden fruit ripening. I must seek it and eat from the wisdom this tree contains, both on Main Street and in real life. Once I have seen the truth, and am banished from a world of true paradise, into a world of pain and torture, then I shall be finished. Then shall I indulge in all that has been suppressed. Without true ignorance, this character never exists, and these stories disappear. Without the loss of the four real friends, I have no inspiration for a second meeting. Without an urge to fulfill all the actions in the upcoming stories, I all but uncommon. And now for the story that has consumed my final years of higher schooling, including both the non and fictional parts.
Alone in a room, plain as youth, I sit and stare at blank white screens. A haunting melody flows from surrounding speakers, while there I attempt to concentrate by ignoring the sound. Images of myself and four friends, who shall never be forgotten, walk down a fictional street while my fingers rest upon the home row, awaiting instruction. The constant night of this street matches the real world on most occasions.
The images lurk behind me, as I send them perpetually walking down a street, which shall only be called Main Street. The backgrounds repeat, like those of an old animated chase scene, but in my head certain buildings, and streets are reached without explanation as to how the loop ceases. A magical street this is, for you may walk forever and never reach your destination, but always it is leading somewhere.
Words begin to flow in front of me, as I drift off into the other world, leaving my body as an empty shell for punching poetry. The four friends are faced to me, but faceless to those who read, for all have these four people in their life. And all have made, will make, or are making this particular stroll down the common street that leads to the infinite.
And while I sit here, creating words from passion, I wish not to be typing, nor dreaming. I wish to be outside, I wish to be walking down the real main street of my home town, gazing at the lights of buildings, and enjoying the night air. Life is different at night, it is clearer. We discover ourselves during the night, and make our best and worst choices as well. We all are no strangers to the night, for we dream in darkness, with stars glowing above our heads. The late train to NYC glides smoothly along the track. I wish I were on it.
The music of a dead artist now vibrates my ear drum. I picture the stab wounds, his heart pierced. One with true courage, who used it in his music, changing lives with beauty; but also wasting it on the end of his own life. To my right, a window is open, allowing the music to escape into the night, into my paradise. An apple tree stands far away, with the forbidden fruit ripening. I must seek it and eat from the wisdom this tree contains, both on Main Street and in real life. Once I have seen the truth, and am banished from a world of true paradise, into a world of pain and torture, then I shall be finished. Then shall I indulge in all that has been suppressed. Without true ignorance, this character never exists, and these stories disappear. Without the loss of the four real friends, I have no inspiration for a second meeting. Without an urge to fulfill all the actions in the upcoming stories, I all but uncommon. And now for the story that has consumed my final years of higher schooling, including both the non and fictional parts.