Genkora
Frog blast the vent core!
- Reaction score
- 92
I just sorta sat down not knowing what I was going to write about and this is what happened. A story about nothing; er, uh, I mean a deep, metaphysical story about awesome stuff.
At the end of a dark path surrounded by trees stands a stranger blocking the light. The light, enveloping the stranger in a halo, casts them in darkness. What the stranger waits for remains a mystery; these are drowning dreams.
I remember a time where I could laugh and wander. Back then, it didn't matter when I came home, I was a child to my imagination. We would go to the beach a lot, and no matter what happened, the ocean was always the same. If you went back in time to the age of dinosaurs, the sea would look the same. Of course, the subjects of the ocean were by no means static, but all that matters to me is what I perceive. My friends could move, my family could slowly grow and die, but the ocean was always something I could rely on.
In a forsaken forest lay wanderer statues swallowed by moss. Light swells through the branches of the canopy, creating another universe mirroring the hopes and fears of the statues.
When I was eleven, I was betrayed by one of my friends. When I was thirteen I left an even older friend for the same reason, I was the master of my own destiny. It hurt, it hurt a lot; but everyone flies away eventually, becoming memories. Memories eventually fade and are forgotten. We go back and find the old pictures and everything comes rushing back, but we hope for a future and put our fears to rest.
Atop a hill at twilight grows an ancient oak. Life ignores the arcane witnesses, even on a blood stained battlefield who's sentinel grows over.
My sister had a pair of thick cork sandals. For some reason I still haven't forgotten something so mundane and meaningless; then again, it couldn't be meaningless to me if I remember. She wore them all the time, it was hot where we grew up and they fit; my mother had taken a picture of them laying on the back patio. When I look at this photo twenty years later I realize my memories are more precious than any picture. Photo's are merciless in their truth; my memories only tell what is important, they only remind me of the things I loved or hated.
A little girl in a dress stands in the wind, smiling. Faith builds on small joys and enormous triumphs. It also builds on simple inconveniences and disasters. Faith in humanity, faith in endurance, faith in anything worth trying for.
Am I drowning? Is this all really a dream? I remember a dream where there was a giant who could fly, but I was grounded. In my experiences, the fantastic never convinced me I was dreaming. It was mundaneness telling me to wake up and prove to myself that I was dreaming. I was on an airplane, I had forgotten my wallet and phone, two things I keep in my pockets. I realized at once it was a dream, because I would not forget something so important on a trip, where I then woke up and told myself, “See? It was a dream.” But not flying giants, not burning pools, not interstellar homes with bamboo screen doors; those are reality when I dream. Lucidity is not something I clearly call a friend.
The stranger just stands there, waiting; far too late perhaps the watcher realizes for themselves.
I remember a time where I could laugh and wander. Back then, it didn't matter when I came home, I was a child to my imagination. We would go to the beach a lot, and no matter what happened, the ocean was always the same. If you went back in time to the age of dinosaurs, the sea would look the same. Of course, the subjects of the ocean were by no means static, but all that matters to me is what I perceive. My friends could move, my family could slowly grow and die, but the ocean was always something I could rely on.
In a forsaken forest lay wanderer statues swallowed by moss. Light swells through the branches of the canopy, creating another universe mirroring the hopes and fears of the statues.
When I was eleven, I was betrayed by one of my friends. When I was thirteen I left an even older friend for the same reason, I was the master of my own destiny. It hurt, it hurt a lot; but everyone flies away eventually, becoming memories. Memories eventually fade and are forgotten. We go back and find the old pictures and everything comes rushing back, but we hope for a future and put our fears to rest.
Atop a hill at twilight grows an ancient oak. Life ignores the arcane witnesses, even on a blood stained battlefield who's sentinel grows over.
My sister had a pair of thick cork sandals. For some reason I still haven't forgotten something so mundane and meaningless; then again, it couldn't be meaningless to me if I remember. She wore them all the time, it was hot where we grew up and they fit; my mother had taken a picture of them laying on the back patio. When I look at this photo twenty years later I realize my memories are more precious than any picture. Photo's are merciless in their truth; my memories only tell what is important, they only remind me of the things I loved or hated.
A little girl in a dress stands in the wind, smiling. Faith builds on small joys and enormous triumphs. It also builds on simple inconveniences and disasters. Faith in humanity, faith in endurance, faith in anything worth trying for.
Am I drowning? Is this all really a dream? I remember a dream where there was a giant who could fly, but I was grounded. In my experiences, the fantastic never convinced me I was dreaming. It was mundaneness telling me to wake up and prove to myself that I was dreaming. I was on an airplane, I had forgotten my wallet and phone, two things I keep in my pockets. I realized at once it was a dream, because I would not forget something so important on a trip, where I then woke up and told myself, “See? It was a dream.” But not flying giants, not burning pools, not interstellar homes with bamboo screen doors; those are reality when I dream. Lucidity is not something I clearly call a friend.
The stranger just stands there, waiting; far too late perhaps the watcher realizes for themselves.
