Post by r.andom on Jun 22, 2007 12:33:06 GMT -5
Don’t know why I’m here, but it’s certainly for a reason. I left the unreasonable ways back when I was young and stupid – when I committed mistakes for the sake of ignorance and pleasure. I am no longer young, or stupid; if I were, I wouldn’t be able to come to terms with myself, I’d have fallen, long ago, in the same traps they made for my creed and my race. There was a time when I was lovely, there was a time when I was mad; but those times, as the hormones that bred them, are now far behind me. And, as anybody who lives to die, I walked on.
It’s springtime now and soon enough it’ll be fall. Mares will come and go, will be impregnated by will or force (rape, such beautiful pleasure, is as prevalent in this society as in any other) and will, as nature dictates, gives birth to progeny they did not ask to have. I don’t like either season; to me, it is the unforgiving cold of winter and the dry laughter of bare trees that make the true beauty. I will not be hammered down by the weight of a child this winter. I’ve long since known the ways to avoid such a thing.
Maybe it is the wish to overthrow my solitude that brings me here, to this centre of activity and flesh, an open venue to passions and want. Here there are hearts, and bodies, for sale, not too different from the brothels I’ve frequented. I have rested in silence for too long; my paleness has come to resemble the paleness of the dead. It’s time that I rise from my leaden tomb and walk among them again. There’ll always be silence in my nights by the moon.
They disgust me, these whores, though no one is less fit than me to say such. There was a time when I was young and foolish to fall into the grasp of those who whispered my name in the night – Zynfendal, Zynfendal! And I would believe their promises and surrender my heart and flesh, much as these sympathetic fools, to their whims. I’ve long since become what I hate the most, but those days, as many others, I have left behind. It is a winter of malcontent that waits me, but I am not afraid. There is no reason to be afraid of the world’s natural processes.
Maybe I am cynical and I doubt they will ever approach me. It must be intimidating, the way I stand, though I cannot help it – I stand the way I stand and there is no law, mortal or heavenly, that will change whom I am. Who I will become? But for now, the courtesan is gone in hunting for her new court – her new masters-to-be. How quaint. How ancient.
“So, what have you got world?”
Stark pearls gaze the land, it’s a new life for me. I have changed my ways from my young days. My carcass has developed, for I am now of four years. Black and ashen gypsy structure light and in excellent nutrition. Feathered appendages drag my gothic figure forward with the grace of a swan and yet the silence is not broken. Lanterns in use at their full degree, swiveling at the snaps of twigs caused, by creatures of the night - fleeing from my steps. The night is still young, the moon still creeping up into the stars - shinning throughout the pallid night vapors twirling in the sky. Owls cooing in the distance - wolves arguing with the disturbance as reply vaguely. It’s new.
Z y n f en d a l;
The universe is flux, life is opinion.
It’s springtime now and soon enough it’ll be fall. Mares will come and go, will be impregnated by will or force (rape, such beautiful pleasure, is as prevalent in this society as in any other) and will, as nature dictates, gives birth to progeny they did not ask to have. I don’t like either season; to me, it is the unforgiving cold of winter and the dry laughter of bare trees that make the true beauty. I will not be hammered down by the weight of a child this winter. I’ve long since known the ways to avoid such a thing.
Maybe it is the wish to overthrow my solitude that brings me here, to this centre of activity and flesh, an open venue to passions and want. Here there are hearts, and bodies, for sale, not too different from the brothels I’ve frequented. I have rested in silence for too long; my paleness has come to resemble the paleness of the dead. It’s time that I rise from my leaden tomb and walk among them again. There’ll always be silence in my nights by the moon.
They disgust me, these whores, though no one is less fit than me to say such. There was a time when I was young and foolish to fall into the grasp of those who whispered my name in the night – Zynfendal, Zynfendal! And I would believe their promises and surrender my heart and flesh, much as these sympathetic fools, to their whims. I’ve long since become what I hate the most, but those days, as many others, I have left behind. It is a winter of malcontent that waits me, but I am not afraid. There is no reason to be afraid of the world’s natural processes.
Maybe I am cynical and I doubt they will ever approach me. It must be intimidating, the way I stand, though I cannot help it – I stand the way I stand and there is no law, mortal or heavenly, that will change whom I am. Who I will become? But for now, the courtesan is gone in hunting for her new court – her new masters-to-be. How quaint. How ancient.
“So, what have you got world?”
Stark pearls gaze the land, it’s a new life for me. I have changed my ways from my young days. My carcass has developed, for I am now of four years. Black and ashen gypsy structure light and in excellent nutrition. Feathered appendages drag my gothic figure forward with the grace of a swan and yet the silence is not broken. Lanterns in use at their full degree, swiveling at the snaps of twigs caused, by creatures of the night - fleeing from my steps. The night is still young, the moon still creeping up into the stars - shinning throughout the pallid night vapors twirling in the sky. Owls cooing in the distance - wolves arguing with the disturbance as reply vaguely. It’s new.
Z y n f en d a l;
