And so as the dust settles, and I'm counting the finite beans upon my palms. I ask myself if all of that was really worth it. Something so abstract that it falters world spirits, and the Centerpiece. And the Crysanthanum, and the Deer-Dragons. I wrote a book once. a fantasy. I looked at prompts and it was pretty. "make the perfect laws for your world" it said. and so I sat an thought through my lil opal noggin. In the name of Vera I feel clairvoyant as t he ideas touch paper. But at the end of the day the book is stored on a shelf. A shelf which is dustied and clearly ravaged by time. I know not of what timeline of which my writings will be whisked through. But the elements do scare me. Like the ink I write, which dries and fades unevenly. I feel it happens just like that... Centerpiece after centerpiece slowly loose that kindle, that first penstrike upon paper. "Opal has the best idea", gets reduced to "Has Idea" interspersed with mysterious spacing. Followed that with the little declination I make, when I wholly in this context proclaim that only I am the perfect one to enact that LAW in my headworld. Oh so it's then written.
I revisit this sometime in the future. kobolds have heard of my ramblings. they've sung my tune and some have taken idol to my idea. I feel troubled. I feel the way Vera did. What idea is it in the end that the finite focus a mortal and an angel can make? they shine the light, but all that the light reaches is but a figment of the universe of my words. Ofcourse the kobolds have only read the first page, never considering there's a page after. I frown that I've kept my most obscene ideas on the first page. a little magna carta comedy of I belittling everything silly in a silly way. The first page was meant like an antonym of what I'd write in the headworld. But sadly the kobolds have enacted it law.
Metie
And so as the dust settles, and I'm counting the finite beans upon my palms. I ask myself if all of that was really worth it. Something so abstract that it falters world spirits, and the Centerpiece. And the Crysanthanum, and the Deer-Dragons. I wrote a book once. a fantasy. I looked at prompts and it was pretty. "make the perfect laws for your world" it said. and so I sat an thought through my lil opal noggin. In the name of Vera I feel clairvoyant as t he ideas touch paper. But at the end of the day the book is stored on a shelf. A shelf which is dustied and clearly ravaged by time. I know not of what timeline of which my writings will be whisked through. But the elements do scare me. Like the ink I write, which dries and fades unevenly. I feel it happens just like that... Centerpiece after centerpiece slowly loose that kindle, that first penstrike upon paper. "Opal has the best idea", gets reduced to "Has Idea" interspersed with mysterious spacing. Followed that with the little declination I make, when I wholly in this context proclaim that only I am the perfect one to enact that LAW in my headworld. Oh so it's then written.
I revisit this sometime in the future. kobolds have heard of my ramblings. they've sung my tune and some have taken idol to my idea. I feel troubled. I feel the way Vera did. What idea is it in the end that the finite focus a mortal and an angel can make? they shine the light, but all that the light reaches is but a figment of the universe of my words. Ofcourse the kobolds have only read the first page, never considering there's a page after. I frown that I've kept my most obscene ideas on the first page. a little magna carta comedy of I belittling everything silly in a silly way. The first page was meant like an antonym of what I'd write in the headworld. But sadly the kobolds have enacted it law.
and thus I quit that roleplay session.
10 months, 10 days ago Edited 5:34 am