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Surrealism
Surrealism
A small, tan coloured book, completely unadorned. The binding is worn and aged, the pages slightly tattered and curling towards the edges. Several small notes peek out here and there from between the sheaves of parchment and pieces of torn blue silk mark places within.
Monday, 06 April 2015
In my waking marcs, I miss everything. I miss the people who create my smiles. The roguess, the bird, the little enchantress, the liar, the lucky one, the dancer. Yet I sleep in the arms of the cleric as I have never slept. Not for a very long time. I sleep in safety, comfort, home. It is ridiculous, no? My thoughts, even on a page, incite my own ridicule and stir the want of my pride, and yet, that pride, it is banked. It is glowing only as the coals of a long set fire. It burns, but it does not rage, not like it ever has.

Perhaps it is only maturity that has banked it. Perhaps. Perhaps it is age and time that has tempered something that once was a blaze in the face of all reason, a beacon in the darkness, a light that guided and drew me. Perhaps. And yet, perhaps it is only the right of things, the want of things, the settle of my shoulders into something that feels right.

Who knows. I have ever been foolish, wanton, flighty. I have ever been passionate and then lost. Alive and then adrift. We age though, and as we age we want not for the things we had before, not for the heat that fed the flames of what we were, but for the embers of what keep us alive, awake, burning.

He is that. Damn him.
Celestia posted @ 20:05 - Link - comments
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