muse
Finally, she appears, singing a song more beautiful than any note from the piano. Her words move me; they delve into my very core and rile up my blood. With her, I can do anything, and I have waited so long... So long for her re-emergence. Thanks to her song, I can fabricate the living lost in time, once forgotten, but never destroyed.
Who is this? Someone strange stands before me. An air of familiarity emanates from them, though... Where have I met you? They hover, an overwhelming force that makes me lurch, cower into the corner. Their shadow looms over me, but it what is longer and darker is their own body, one that towers taller than anything else. Why do I fear you so? What is it about you that strikes such undeniable abhorrence? I take a deep breath; smoke, it burns my lungs, but I take it in anyway. What else is there to take than you're terrible aura? It's all I know.
Minding the Mindless
Who's to say we were not born to betray? In a mindless world filled with plasticity, where our final destination is a box reproduced for many, we yearn for individuality. In achieving so, we must achieve or disachieve, win or falter. That is the mind we are given... Or is it the mind we take? There is no saying whether we chose this life or this life chooses us - whether this world, who we frame as senseless and uncaring, is only perceived that way...or worse, created by we, who condemn it so, for who can hate their bastard creation more than the creator itself.
The Sound of Music
The strings of the harp are woven from the souls of the forgotten, the ones who were ripped of their beautiful breaths into a stygian suffering. The music it creates is the sounds of their screams, shouts for freedom, wishes of rebirth and sanctuary. Every pluck is agonizing pain, a reminder of treasured days and lingering nightmares.
Only the most beautiful music is bred from the most weary of spirits.
