This is nothing more than the result of a timed writing experience I was giving myself one night.
DA Link: http://un-livre.deviantart.com/art/T...Aun-livre&qo=0
I wrote this some time ago. Indeed there was supposed to be more, however, it never quite turned out that way. DA Link: http://un-livre.deviantart.com/#/d31k1ntThe Theater Room:
After our procession we found ourselves together amidst exasperating articles that hung limp over even more exasperating phantoms. There was a dim light that fell from the ceiling and another just beyond that. This so caused a stir of unimaginable shadows to seep unto that which they could so presently cling to. I held my breath for the room was draught with a cool folly that so played upon my skin with the creeping inkling of delirium and these figures before me, I felt laughing at my plight. The others fared better I presumed as they looked on with childlike awe over what lay nigh only but a few careful step ahead. Ah! if it were not for the dint of those lights I too could have enjoyed at the very least the one guise that like a forbidden fruit bewitched me.
No! The other men dressed in hats and wild masks set in silver and glinting jewels. How could they be so fearless for this room held an uncomfortable weight on my very shoulders—a weight that held the soles of my barren feet locked to its boards. Ever thinking this room must have been the death of many like-minded mortal sinners before me and here I am now looking left, right, left and then back at the men there dancing and singing all while these shadows play along the wall and these masks of tigers, elephants, and ballroom dancers stare back at them in so dubious a manner. Oh! let it it cease to even exist!
Yet that guise remained untouched by my comrades, light, and even shade. It sat forlorn atop the head of some aloof mannequin that resembled an old playwright. Why was there smoke in the room, thought I, why is there always smoke in such a place as this? I dragged myself thither across and between and yes even over fallen idols and articles. My feet wished not to leave the ground but was this very mask my muse, thought I, and therefore I must have it at any cost. On either hand masks and dress stood erect in aristocratic prose. Behind me I could hear the others banter and cries for "More!" though for what is beyond my comprehension.
Reaching for it my hands shook with a violent calamity my body has yet known. Against the blackness that eluded the mask, my hands sunk in and with all ten fingers pulled it from its place. I brought the mask into the light to set my eyes with wonder. Its visage was shrouded in a thin, transparent, garment that I brushed back behind it to reveal what had caught me minutes before. For this mask held no paint but only the white mold of which it was crafted. There was not one hue to pronounce the divine potency of its face, but rather an expressionless gaze etched into itself.
And here my boat rests in monotony as the sea laps at its withering figure. She has seen better days, and I hold only myself accountable as her ventures know only that of failure due in part to my foolishness in believing in my own abilities. Already, I find hope to be in short supply. Nevertheless to abandon what is left would surely announce defeat and this night is too benevolent to claim me as her victim. There, out my quarter's window, across and again, above the horizon, hangs a crescent of impervious magnificence. I should wish to know what it finds as humorous as I've not a reason to be smiling, but I shall not contest in the notion of its greater knowledge.
The depth of these waters does leave one nothing, but the romantic desire to measure his own. Below is the result of such a sea as these:
I would imagine in examination of one's self, one must first begin with a concise representation of what he holds as truth—not what has been claimed as true or even proven as true, but what he himself has discovered as true, his truth. Subsequently one must doubt those truths with alacrity and vigor if he should wish to ascertain his truths to their finite, metaphysical degree. Only then will he know the weight of himself. In sparing you the details (and my searching for words) to this developing philosophy, for now, I shall only mention passion as my truth.
I trust you are sleeping since my last telegram that I can only assume has found you by now, but this is mere wishful thinking on my behalf and perhaps you've not cared to read upon its page as to deny the extent of my leave. If that may be, here is me hoping the fate of this document a different one.
My love, you must understand: Nothing is your fault. When my heart so wishes to hear you calling, the amorous warmth of memory will guide me over this bitter sea and land my feet upon the shore. My heart hears only that which it cannot find, for it has lost itself. It is somewhere out here, waiting for me. And, my love, you must understand that I will find it.