Creation: An Outline
May. 23rd, 2002 06:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wolven7He started with a place. A showing, a brief glimpse of personality, leading, perhaps, to later understanding. He then moved onto her name: A place to give purpose, reason. A bit of identity. A Noblewoman. He briefly conceptualised her looks as having longish hair, kind features. It was not meant to be a hurtful thing, to those around him, but he was unable to bethere. There was distance, in so moany of its forms and applications...
He needed to Create, and she was there, in concept, for him to create. All that stood in his way were his own powers. His powers to persevere; his powers to continue, no matter the cost, and his power to make his dreams, in a very literal sense, reality. There would be backlash, and potential repercussions, but he was willing to risk it, if there was a Chance. Creating one's own reality was a heavy task, and...
There had been storms. The force with which his grief and pain hit him had lashed back out, into the world, and there had been storms. Tornadoes, and thunder, and lightning, and the sky had opened up, and taken it all in. Well, not quite all, but enough to make people see that there was something more... They could no longer deny it now... And He would not Run. A line from a song occured to him, then. "The Jury is coming, coming to tear me apart. All this bitching and moaning. Come on, it's on." He was stuck in a world, not meant for him, and everything he did, to try to adapt, only made it worse. It had cost him... so much...
No More. Let them come. Let them try to denounce and persecute him, for his choices. He would show them pain. He would show them what loss was. And then he would give it all back to them... Why? Why must he be constantly alone, and without companion? He had chosen this, had he not? And he would continue to Chose. Pain be damned. Hell. At least it let him know he was alive.
He sat in the chair, and waited for them to collect him, but they would never do it as well as he had collected himself.
He needed to Create, and she was there, in concept, for him to create. All that stood in his way were his own powers. His powers to persevere; his powers to continue, no matter the cost, and his power to make his dreams, in a very literal sense, reality. There would be backlash, and potential repercussions, but he was willing to risk it, if there was a Chance. Creating one's own reality was a heavy task, and...
There had been storms. The force with which his grief and pain hit him had lashed back out, into the world, and there had been storms. Tornadoes, and thunder, and lightning, and the sky had opened up, and taken it all in. Well, not quite all, but enough to make people see that there was something more... They could no longer deny it now... And He would not Run. A line from a song occured to him, then. "The Jury is coming, coming to tear me apart. All this bitching and moaning. Come on, it's on." He was stuck in a world, not meant for him, and everything he did, to try to adapt, only made it worse. It had cost him... so much...
No More. Let them come. Let them try to denounce and persecute him, for his choices. He would show them pain. He would show them what loss was. And then he would give it all back to them... Why? Why must he be constantly alone, and without companion? He had chosen this, had he not? And he would continue to Chose. Pain be damned. Hell. At least it let him know he was alive.
He sat in the chair, and waited for them to collect him, but they would never do it as well as he had collected himself.
