He lays on top of his bed, lost in some dream. He brings his cigarette to his lips and the tip blossoms and crackles in the silent darkness. As his hand drifts back to rest on his stomach, the smoke slips thoughtfully from his mouth.
Melancholy is a sadness that slowly embraces the beautiful indifference of the universe; that moves in dense swirls from its point of origin, then slowly rises and hangs in the air before dissipating into nothingness.
He cannot afford a wedding. He cannot afford a bride. He cannot afford to buy the dress that will breathe life into the dreams of a young girl before they dissipate into the disappointment of adulthood. He cannot afford to mend his broken shoes.
His fiance lays next to him, naked, surrendered, her head resting on his shoulder, lost in some dream...
Tuesday 20 March 2007
Small Descriptions...
He wants to make stories that swell and burst hearts. The bonfire storyteller who creates worlds for his flames to illuminate. Through the darkness of his mysteries, his passion licks their minds. Wide eyed, open mouthed, they listen. Hours pass timelessly.
He wants to pour words on a page, he wants to bring the reader to his fire; the tree-stump seats, warmth and light peeking shallow into the darkness. Words on a page, hanging in the air.
He has a lot to learn. An amateur witch, he doesn't know his craft. He decides to begin by making small descriptions...
He wants to pour words on a page, he wants to bring the reader to his fire; the tree-stump seats, warmth and light peeking shallow into the darkness. Words on a page, hanging in the air.
He has a lot to learn. An amateur witch, he doesn't know his craft. He decides to begin by making small descriptions...
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