Meticulous Insanity
I'm not interested in more self-pitying drivel, but that seems to be the only subject I have these days. Why so much self pity?
I just want to keep starting new things and leaving them once they're old. Perhaps I'm searching for something. My assumption is that I'm searching for the unobtainable "perfect" story or some such nonsense, and this probably out of fear.
Shall I write about dragons? Shall I write about magic? Shall I write about swords? Shall I write about battles and blood? Shall I write at all? In pursuing it more and more, I feel as though I really wasn't meant to write.
Wah wah wah: more self-pity.
How do I write just a small story?
There's a tissue box over there. The base color is off-white, and there is a simple manilla leaf pattern. The brand name and description resides inside a dark blue oval. The opening at the top was opened with relative care – though there is a rip near one edge. A tissue sticks out; one edge of it lays down away from me, and the other edge stands up and curls forward like a semi-alert dog's ear.
I saw a wizard once. At first glance, you'd think he were a furious god, come here to instill fear and respect into the hearts of his underlings. I saw this in his stature. He stood tall and straight like a lean pillar of power.
Upon examining his boots, you might take him to be a jester: his boot toes curled up and back, ending with a tiny gem. The colors in his boots couldn't be overlooked either: bold crimson and glimmering azure. I insist to myself that I saw the azure shift like ocean waves, but it sounds crazy even to repeat it now.
His coat seemed like a well-worn and well-mended pirate's cloak: well-fitted leather and plenty of pockets. Considering the number of sashes he wore, he could have accommodated plenty of pistols too, but his sashes were only adorned with indistinguishable baubles, clanking, ringing, or what have you as he stood there.
Next, I thought him to be a kook: his beard was not overly long, so he wouldn't quite pass as a vagrant. Rather, his beard was splayed wide with meticulous symmetry like billowing waves or billowing winds. I supposed that he had teased it out to look like that, but his whole being seemed splayed wide with meticulous insanity.
However, I then went onto his eyes. They had a childish glint in any corner you might examine. They were bright and curious. Despite this, his thick, furled eyebrows and the creases in his face bespoke only focus and intensity.
So far, I have described only a superbly incongruous man — not a wizard.
I cannot cite any evidence besides the presence I sensed emanating from him. As I said, his whole being seemed splayed with insanity, but, by insanity, I really mean genius. Even more so, by genius, I really mean power.
I know there's naught but his glimmering ocean boots to defend my words — and even those you won't believe — but, if I ever I were sure of anything, it's that that man had reaches beyond any common man.
There's a simple note card atop a strangely wired book rack. It says, "Free Books" underlined and "Help Yourself." The writing is almost assuredly female: smooth, round strokes.
The rack itself is hard to describe. There are six shelves of sorts. Each shelf is a square of two pockets per each side. The pockets are offset in such a way that, if you're looking straight at a side, the two pockets facing you are set to the right. On the left is the side of a pocket facing away to the left of your view. Each pair of pockets has three dividers: one for each side and one for the middle. Each pocket has a lip of sorts: a wired arrangement jutting out at 90 degrees and – about two inches out – jutting up at 90 degrees. Presumably, the books are meant to sit with a front cover facing outward as opposed to the spines facing out like a common bookshelf. The top three shelves in this whole structure are stuck together with vertical metal rods. The bottom three are the same.
Thirteen steps. One more than twelve. One less than fourteen. It is destiny.
Time to use the restroom, then jot game ideas, and then wait.
I just want to keep starting new things and leaving them once they're old. Perhaps I'm searching for something. My assumption is that I'm searching for the unobtainable "perfect" story or some such nonsense, and this probably out of fear.
Shall I write about dragons? Shall I write about magic? Shall I write about swords? Shall I write about battles and blood? Shall I write at all? In pursuing it more and more, I feel as though I really wasn't meant to write.
Wah wah wah: more self-pity.
How do I write just a small story?
There's a tissue box over there. The base color is off-white, and there is a simple manilla leaf pattern. The brand name and description resides inside a dark blue oval. The opening at the top was opened with relative care – though there is a rip near one edge. A tissue sticks out; one edge of it lays down away from me, and the other edge stands up and curls forward like a semi-alert dog's ear.
I saw a wizard once. At first glance, you'd think he were a furious god, come here to instill fear and respect into the hearts of his underlings. I saw this in his stature. He stood tall and straight like a lean pillar of power.
Upon examining his boots, you might take him to be a jester: his boot toes curled up and back, ending with a tiny gem. The colors in his boots couldn't be overlooked either: bold crimson and glimmering azure. I insist to myself that I saw the azure shift like ocean waves, but it sounds crazy even to repeat it now.
His coat seemed like a well-worn and well-mended pirate's cloak: well-fitted leather and plenty of pockets. Considering the number of sashes he wore, he could have accommodated plenty of pistols too, but his sashes were only adorned with indistinguishable baubles, clanking, ringing, or what have you as he stood there.
Next, I thought him to be a kook: his beard was not overly long, so he wouldn't quite pass as a vagrant. Rather, his beard was splayed wide with meticulous symmetry like billowing waves or billowing winds. I supposed that he had teased it out to look like that, but his whole being seemed splayed wide with meticulous insanity.
However, I then went onto his eyes. They had a childish glint in any corner you might examine. They were bright and curious. Despite this, his thick, furled eyebrows and the creases in his face bespoke only focus and intensity.
So far, I have described only a superbly incongruous man — not a wizard.
I cannot cite any evidence besides the presence I sensed emanating from him. As I said, his whole being seemed splayed with insanity, but, by insanity, I really mean genius. Even more so, by genius, I really mean power.
I know there's naught but his glimmering ocean boots to defend my words — and even those you won't believe — but, if I ever I were sure of anything, it's that that man had reaches beyond any common man.
There's a simple note card atop a strangely wired book rack. It says, "Free Books" underlined and "Help Yourself." The writing is almost assuredly female: smooth, round strokes.
The rack itself is hard to describe. There are six shelves of sorts. Each shelf is a square of two pockets per each side. The pockets are offset in such a way that, if you're looking straight at a side, the two pockets facing you are set to the right. On the left is the side of a pocket facing away to the left of your view. Each pair of pockets has three dividers: one for each side and one for the middle. Each pocket has a lip of sorts: a wired arrangement jutting out at 90 degrees and – about two inches out – jutting up at 90 degrees. Presumably, the books are meant to sit with a front cover facing outward as opposed to the spines facing out like a common bookshelf. The top three shelves in this whole structure are stuck together with vertical metal rods. The bottom three are the same.
Thirteen steps. One more than twelve. One less than fourteen. It is destiny.
Time to use the restroom, then jot game ideas, and then wait.
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