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Literature Text
A song. Not a popular one, no, and neither an underground, for a small circle of appreciators' song. Just a song. A song probably only a few people on earth have heard, just like millions of others composed by regular people in the whole world. A song about nothing and at the same time about anything you want. A song that has no words but speaks to you in its own way. Not money, not houses, not paintings, not even writings, but just a song out of it all. Of course people will remember them all; some - the money, some - the houses and the paintings there, some - the poems and the stories. But it is not the money that is his biggest treasure, nor are the houses and all the wealth they keep within, neither the old fashioned poems and certainly not the short stories he wrote during long sleepless nights.
A song. A song he came with one long summer day, unaware of what he was creating. If he knew that it would be the last thing he ever composed he probably would have paid more attention to the process of crafting it. But the song was unplanned - a raw, spontaneous outburst of thoughts and fears, sweet lies and the bitter truth, the realisation of that bitter truth. A song that was never understood by the One who unintentionally and completely unaware of that fact became his muse, the everlasting fountain of inspiration overflowing beyond the reach of his hands, words, thoughts, his dreams... However, the song had a much greater impact on his life than a mere dedication to somebody: it became the hymn of it, the turning point of all his being. It was the first blow on the foundations of the old He, the prophet, which foretold the coming changes, the alienation of his old self, the collapse of his tiny little world he created around himself through which, like through a veil, his childhood would carelessly gaze out at the life around then arrogantly tuck itself back into the sandbox, pretending to be a free thinker who goes against the socially accepted behaviour, who believes that he is the centre of the whole fucking universe and that all the others around him are at his disposal to appease his every single whim and desire whenever he pleases, whatever be the cost.
A song that broke it all. That still breaks it all. A song that slowly flows into a powerful wave which softly crashes you, imminently spreading all your dreams into myriad atoms and molecules, that embraces you and exalts your mortal spirit in rare moments of sincerity, emptying every ounce of it, then gently puts it down on the sinful soil - into your flawed body. After which, all hollowed, your spirit longs for a purpose which that song took away in its final seconds exploding in a silent harmony, devastating your mind and soul, leaving you all alone, facing the world in its complete hopelessness. And that moment your heart bursts. Bursts out of pity for the World, for you then see how lonely it is, how cold it is, how much it needs an end to start anew. That moment you feel how weary the soil has become under our weight, for it bears not merely our bodies but our dreams and hopes and ambitions which expand as we go, in the end becoming the weight under which we break, and with us breaks the soil, embracing our remnants in a wooden box deeply buried in its heart - still weary of our presence. That's what the song meant to him.
And when the last spade of earth covers the ground above him, a song will be left. When all those people who have known him are gone, a song will be left. When the whole world with us all ends, a song will be left.
Literature
Address to Night
Find yourself put out on the street like bones
for a wire-haired dog, find yourself lost
at the next bus stop. The maps are all veins
you shouldn’t trace back to a perfectly
well-beating heart. There are places you can’t
visit. In this room, family only. Recovery
isn’t done by halves, or even full pockmarked
moons. And I have loved your low harvest, your thrush
of cold; I have felt it sit on my shoulder and
sing. The pool at night, all the light inside
magnified by absence, the girls night
mermaids – streaming hair illuminated
by your nothing. The place you terminate
is where I choose to love him. Don’t drag
Literature
Too Close
We were laughing that night...
Your brother needed your car keys, but you forgot all about them.
You said I do such things to you and I wondered why.
I had just woken up...
You would spend the night out and I was staying home.
I didn't expect much, but you left me a text saying, "I wish you were here".
You were traveling out of town...
I knew you needed some time to chill out and we wouldn't talk much.
But still you messaged me, "I miss you".
I was anxious...
We were both busy with daily routine, but I didn't want you vanish.
You apologized and reassured me that you think of me everytime we are apart.
And then in our fantasy...
You were
Literature
Mirrored
Where once the spirit did decline, It found no way to move ahead, The obstacles once bent, align And lead our heroine instead Onwards to a clearer place Where one can move at measured pace Not breakneck speed in panic's thrall Walk steady, strong, not falter - fall, She strides through that which render weak The bravest souls who conquer death And dares to face her foes and speak - "I'll never quell another breath, For I am not your enemy You merely see yourself in me."
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For 's Prompt: January 7, 2013 [link] which was "write about something you'll leave behind, your own personal archaeology". I started pretty normal but I'm not sure at what point this took a philosophical turn and ended with an almost abstract song when in fact there IS a song that was the prototype of the one in the story (I write prototype because this story just got a bit too global) I guess whatever I write has to have this cryptic feeling to it...
*EDIT*
I figured some of you people would like to hear the song described in here, so here's the [link] It's composed and played by me. This was recorded in one go with one guitar (Big thanks to for that) Please note that the actual song may not give you the feelings described above, but to me it sure as hell does So I hope you'll like it. Tell me in comments whether you do or don't
*EDIT AGAIN
I am really excited to tell you that this work has been read by the lovely from Elocutionists, whom I can't thank enough for what she had done, and also for the fact that she is British... I love the British... I love their accent! Here's the recording: [link]
For Criticism
- Is the switching between the style of storytelling too abrupt?
- How is the ending? Does it sound off when compared with the 3rd paragraph or does it fit in? Also would it be better to put the ending before the 3rd paragraph?
- Any other things you may notice
*EDIT*
I figured some of you people would like to hear the song described in here, so here's the [link] It's composed and played by me. This was recorded in one go with one guitar (Big thanks to for that) Please note that the actual song may not give you the feelings described above, but to me it sure as hell does So I hope you'll like it. Tell me in comments whether you do or don't
*EDIT AGAIN
I am really excited to tell you that this work has been read by the lovely from Elocutionists, whom I can't thank enough for what she had done, and also for the fact that she is British... I love the British... I love their accent! Here's the recording: [link]
For Criticism
- Is the switching between the style of storytelling too abrupt?
- How is the ending? Does it sound off when compared with the 3rd paragraph or does it fit in? Also would it be better to put the ending before the 3rd paragraph?
- Any other things you may notice
© 2013 - 2024 Vainamoinenian
Comments20
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Isn't it time for some new creativity ?? dont let ''the hunger for your words'' eat their mind