In the back of a garden, long-forgotten by all save time, there is a place where the flowers never seem to die. Sheltered by the soft, long, green fingers of a willow, near a wall that is tumbling to its death, there is a tiny statue. One that could be mistaken for a birdbath. Engraved by time, and wind, and rain, still the figures are discernible. A pair of sparrows, nestled together for warmth, but still there is something more. They caress each other, their tiny feathers long-since worn away, but the emotion caught in stone. And so the story begins, here at the edge of a long-forgotten ruin...
Sunset. Shadows drift in on sun-gilt wings. Edges of nothingness, emptiness, soft, gray bits of time creep in with the clouds. Coiling and slipping across a fire-tinged sky. The sun reaches out with thin, weak, fingers of light, grasping at the edge of the world. It drops below the edge, leaving bits and pieces of itself, bits and pieces of light, left to twist and wither in the clouds.
Night creeps in, holding to the remnants of the light, cuddling them close like some sort of blanket. The trees below reach towards the sky with winter-stripped limbs, bare and naked and somehow quit
I am afraid of everything.
...and nothing at all
Afraid to love.
...please don't leave me.
Afraid to live.
...it hurts me.
Afraid to succeed.
...expectations go so high.
Afraid to fail.
...disappointment tears at me.
So I sit in the same place.
...and cower inside my skin.
The sun is just rising over the valley, bathing the remnants of fall in its cold light,
when he opens the door. His hands are gnarled and wrinkled, ancient relics of a life lived long and lived fully. A scar crosses one finger, wrapping around until it ends in a hook. A memory caught in skin, although made fuzzy in his mind by time and age. Those hands do not shake as they flick on the light and shut the door behind him, although they look as if they should.
Little things take him time, much more time than they once did. He putters for a
moment, stoking a fire, turning on a lamp, unwrapping himself form the scarf his
daughter pressed o
Heart of the Tardis by hoodedpeanutpire, literature
Literature
Heart of the Tardis
I am the one who is left behind, always. The last and first of my kind. Forgotten and
alone, always alone. I wait, hiding from everyone about me, but I cannot hide from
the memories. I do not wish to hide from them, and yet, sometimes, when I look out
across the vastness of my life, the sheer wonder and the awful monotony, I wish only to forget.
I remember being born, the quick brief burst of intensity that soon fades to the small understandings a child is capable of. Warmth and cold, hunger and contentment, love and fear, and the strangely exhilarating unhappiness that comes with being alive. I grew, as all things do, in their own way
In the back of a garden, long-forgotten by all save time, there is a place where the flowers never seem to die. Sheltered by the soft, long, green fingers of a willow, near a wall that is tumbling to its death, there is a tiny statue. One that could be mistaken for a birdbath. Engraved by time, and wind, and rain, still the figures are discernible. A pair of sparrows, nestled together for warmth, but still there is something more. They caress each other, their tiny feathers long-since worn away, but the emotion caught in stone. And so the story begins, here at the edge of a long-forgotten ruin...
Sunset. Shadows drift in on sun-gilt wings. Edges of nothingness, emptiness, soft, gray bits of time creep in with the clouds. Coiling and slipping across a fire-tinged sky. The sun reaches out with thin, weak, fingers of light, grasping at the edge of the world. It drops below the edge, leaving bits and pieces of itself, bits and pieces of light, left to twist and wither in the clouds.
Night creeps in, holding to the remnants of the light, cuddling them close like some sort of blanket. The trees below reach towards the sky with winter-stripped limbs, bare and naked and somehow quit
I am afraid of everything.
...and nothing at all
Afraid to love.
...please don't leave me.
Afraid to live.
...it hurts me.
Afraid to succeed.
...expectations go so high.
Afraid to fail.
...disappointment tears at me.
So I sit in the same place.
...and cower inside my skin.
The sun is just rising over the valley, bathing the remnants of fall in its cold light,
when he opens the door. His hands are gnarled and wrinkled, ancient relics of a life lived long and lived fully. A scar crosses one finger, wrapping around until it ends in a hook. A memory caught in skin, although made fuzzy in his mind by time and age. Those hands do not shake as they flick on the light and shut the door behind him, although they look as if they should.
Little things take him time, much more time than they once did. He putters for a
moment, stoking a fire, turning on a lamp, unwrapping himself form the scarf his
daughter pressed o
Heart of the Tardis by hoodedpeanutpire, literature
Literature
Heart of the Tardis
I am the one who is left behind, always. The last and first of my kind. Forgotten and
alone, always alone. I wait, hiding from everyone about me, but I cannot hide from
the memories. I do not wish to hide from them, and yet, sometimes, when I look out
across the vastness of my life, the sheer wonder and the awful monotony, I wish only to forget.
I remember being born, the quick brief burst of intensity that soon fades to the small understandings a child is capable of. Warmth and cold, hunger and contentment, love and fear, and the strangely exhilarating unhappiness that comes with being alive. I grew, as all things do, in their own way
Sunset. Shadows drift in on sun-gilt wings. Edges of nothingness, emptiness, soft, gray bits of time creep in with the clouds. Coiling and slipping across a fire-tinged sky. The sun reaches out with thin, weak, fingers of light, grasping at the edge of the world. It drops below the edge, leaving bits and pieces of itself, bits and pieces of light, left to twist and wither in the clouds.
Night creeps in, holding to the remnants of the light, cuddling them close like some sort of blanket. The trees below reach towards the sky with winter-stripped limbs, bare and naked and somehow quit
My life, while not as sucktacular as it could be, still sucks.
So stressed right now, came home crying from work because I hate it so much. New job time methinks!
Other stuffs also stressing me out, to the point where no art is ever more than started and will, in all probability, never be finished.
Thank god for video games involving mindless killing of fantastical things, I would cry BEFORE work too if these things didn't exist.
I also may have to have a root canal in the next week or two. Damn teeth.
What'd I do, DIE for a year?
Heh. Or I could have just neglected to upload anything I've done artwise to this site for a year. Either way...
Kk, let's see what the new year has in store.
First I am OBSESSED with this video YAY YAY THIS LINK YES CLICK IT! The artist is on DA and is fabulous. (No I have no idea why it amuses me so much.)
I acquired Facebook late last year, and it has so far been a trip. Not sure yet if it's a good trip, a bad trip, or just a plain old car trip with annoying siblings, but I'll find out.
Writing. I have absolutely NADA to show for all the writing and scribblings I did last year. They're all shit. Which is f
Life in the non-cyber world kicks you in the the teeth with mundane things, then waits for you to get up before (metaphorically)kicking you in the balls with stupid things.
Which is a poor excuse for disappearing.
I blame WoW.