(no subject)
History repeats itself.
Even the most unique, original stories sprung from the greatest literary minds in history borrowed from the works proceeding them. Writers, by nature, absorb the written word. Take them into ourselves until they expand and fill every corner of our minds. Every moment, we're plucking up words from that endless jumble, shuffling them around into something we only hope is original. But every great writer exerts profound influence on his pupils. You can't teach a person how to write, they either have the potential or they don't. All you can do is point them in the right direction and hope that they find their way. Hope that they take those words and make them their own.
We are all sprung from the same blood line. Infected with the same sickness. Consumed by the same passions. Trapped in a cycle, creation and descruction. Having a hand in the birth of something beautiful only to witness it scatter on the wind, lost in that form forever. I'm a fraud. That simple truth has been gnawing at the back of my mind for seven years now. Longer. There's a rather base, blatant sort of irony in the fact that the one creature who was on to me from day one is a blind, elderly pit bull, named Poe.
I admit, I might have handled that situation rather... poorly. But what's done is done, and the assassination of the Head of the English Department's family dog is not something I've found myself dwelling on these past weeks. There are any number of strays and escaped pets roaming the halls, but on this day, on my way from the restrooms to the kitchen to get myself another cup of coffee -- my fifth for the day -- I freeze in the hall, listening to the soft, unmistakeable clicking of claws on the polished wood floor. I never understood how a dog with advanced cataracts could level you with such a disapproving stare, but there he is, just as he was months before, only very much alive and making his presence known.
"Hey... hey, good boy, Poe. Good-" This time, I pride myself in actually making it two steps before the little bastard's on me, and if he doesn't have a near perfect memory, jaws clamping down on my ankle, lining up almost exactly with the wound that has only now healed. History repeats itself, and I find myself actually hoping to see James Leer come around the corner, swinging that little cap gun of his.
Well, this time, maybe we'll make a few minor edits. We wouldn't want to lose your interest just before the big finish...
[Grady is sprawled out in the hallway, somewhere between the bathrooms and the kitchen, with a blind pit bull currently trying to tear off his leg. Please, someone pull Poe off of him. Looks can be deceiving, but Poe is actually a very nice dog, and Grady is the only person in the world he hates. ST/LT welcome, as always.]
Even the most unique, original stories sprung from the greatest literary minds in history borrowed from the works proceeding them. Writers, by nature, absorb the written word. Take them into ourselves until they expand and fill every corner of our minds. Every moment, we're plucking up words from that endless jumble, shuffling them around into something we only hope is original. But every great writer exerts profound influence on his pupils. You can't teach a person how to write, they either have the potential or they don't. All you can do is point them in the right direction and hope that they find their way. Hope that they take those words and make them their own.
We are all sprung from the same blood line. Infected with the same sickness. Consumed by the same passions. Trapped in a cycle, creation and descruction. Having a hand in the birth of something beautiful only to witness it scatter on the wind, lost in that form forever. I'm a fraud. That simple truth has been gnawing at the back of my mind for seven years now. Longer. There's a rather base, blatant sort of irony in the fact that the one creature who was on to me from day one is a blind, elderly pit bull, named Poe.
I admit, I might have handled that situation rather... poorly. But what's done is done, and the assassination of the Head of the English Department's family dog is not something I've found myself dwelling on these past weeks. There are any number of strays and escaped pets roaming the halls, but on this day, on my way from the restrooms to the kitchen to get myself another cup of coffee -- my fifth for the day -- I freeze in the hall, listening to the soft, unmistakeable clicking of claws on the polished wood floor. I never understood how a dog with advanced cataracts could level you with such a disapproving stare, but there he is, just as he was months before, only very much alive and making his presence known.
"Hey... hey, good boy, Poe. Good-" This time, I pride myself in actually making it two steps before the little bastard's on me, and if he doesn't have a near perfect memory, jaws clamping down on my ankle, lining up almost exactly with the wound that has only now healed. History repeats itself, and I find myself actually hoping to see James Leer come around the corner, swinging that little cap gun of his.
Well, this time, maybe we'll make a few minor edits. We wouldn't want to lose your interest just before the big finish...
[Grady is sprawled out in the hallway, somewhere between the bathrooms and the kitchen, with a blind pit bull currently trying to tear off his leg. Please, someone pull Poe off of him. Looks can be deceiving, but Poe is actually a very nice dog, and Grady is the only person in the world he hates. ST/LT welcome, as always.]
