|Musical Visions - Beloved|
Unlike "My Weakness", I don't think reading this while listening to the song that inspired it would be a good idea. Listen to the song first, or after, I don't guess it really matters - just not at the same time.
This came to me so hard that I could not sleep, and now that it woke me up I might not go back to bed. :) I'm fairly pleased with it... It seems to break through a style barrier that I'd felt. I feel that this story takes place in a new (for me), "impressionist" style that I've wanted to do, and fiddled with, but never pulled off to my satisfaction.
Anyhow, what do you think? Bear in mind that it's still a rough draft (oh, yeah - this is also the first thing I've ever written where I saved most of my revisions for later), and I think the biggest problem is that I repeat my ideas without enough variation. Let this be a lesson to you! If, while in bed, you get a good idea going, and developed in your head, GET UP AND WRITE IT DOWN. I had some truly AWESOME phrases, and the plot was better... But I waited about 30 mins or more and lost most of it.
Oh well. Oh, yes. I also use a LOT of Ronan Harris' phrases, slightly reworded. If you think it could be a problem, I'll paste the song lyrics below the story.
And last, but not least, I think I should point out that the text is MUCH different in style from "My Weakness". Much. :)
- Update: Based on the rave reviews from educated friends, I've decided to leave this as is. If you've never heard the song, there's nothing to not like. :) Anyhow, I want this published, ok? :)
Musical Visions - Beloved
Story inspired from lyrics by Ronan Harris of VNV Nation
Alone, he sits, gazing through a solitary window onto the bleak landscape beyond. A slight haze of grime tints the already tired colors into a sepia-toned parody. He felt cold. Was it always so? He could not remember. The passage of time had blurred individual moments into obscurity, the seasons taking them and leaving dried husks of memory, empty of all life.
A figure entered his room, muttered a few empty, polite phrases and wheeled gently him through the long, barren halls. He remembered when he had enjoyed beauty, and yet it seemed to have left the world he now inhabited. The hues and tints of life had faded into a uniform patina of grey.
He was outside now. There was a gentle breeze that flicked at the leaves on the trees and swirled the grasses on the lawn, but it seemed mechanical and lifeless. Had it been so long ago that he was young?
His world had died. He knew that, but only in a passing, vague way. The long seasons had taken their toll. His life was fading, individual memories blurring into one, obscuring the past.
It seemed fitting to him that the world was dressed in white and grey. The moments of his life had faded, taking his love, his home, his life, his dreams. Time had passed him by, but still he lived.
- - -
It was morning. His eyes opened, and he saw a figure dressed in a neat white uniform standing beside his bed. He sat up, slowly, and allowed himself to be dressed. He realized that he wanted something.
A motive, a drive, which perhaps had been left by a dream in the night, formed a restless longing in his soul. He felt this, knew it was important, though he knew not what it was. He told the figure that he wished to go for a walk, alone, and was lead to a door.
He stepped outside into the cooling morning air. Flat white clouds rolled quietly over a pale sky. Looking at them now, he saw a face he had not seen in years, but the next instant it again became distant clouds.
The urge called him still. What it was he still did not know, but he felt it filling his thin legs, lifting his tired feet, pulling his wasted body onwards - and he felt a slight surge of forgotten hope rise within him.
The many neat paths crossed the trim grounds, and his feeble pace was steady and sure as he walked them, guided by something deeper than a need to remember. As he slowly passed, the tired edifices of trees, the bland mats of flowers in their beds and the singing of birds seemed to him far and distant.
Time passed, and he left the grounds, the path taking him along a tree-lined road. He knew now that his goal was near, and he turned under a wire mesh archway, the vines twined and curled through it with a persistence that he recognized.
Now he saw before him a stone, flat and smooth, polished by man and faded by age, but its legend still readable.
"My Beloved..." it said, and he knew. He had been proud, once. He had love and dreams, his strength was boundless and life was long. Their ambitions grew together as one, rose to the heavens in a tower of glory and stood alone in splendor.
He knew then how it felt, the glory, the joy, the triumph of gain - and also the pain of loss. His tower seemed vain after that, and though he knew it yet stood, for him it had fallen into decay and ruin. His love gone, his dreams dashed, and his focus empty, he knew with finality that for him, his moments of history had gone.
Pride? Yes, he realized. He was proud of what he had been. The clouds spoke to him in eloquent images, the face of his beloved etched there, he was sure, for the world to see. He regretted not his decisions; all pain and feeling had passed to the distant seasons, blown by the warm winds that drove the years ever onward.
Gazing up at the clouds now, he knew; moments are lost, but time remains. The face of his beloved rose again before him, and he remembered how they had soared to sacred heights, and there shared what they claimed their own.
Their wings had called them yet higher, and his thoughts roamed the seconds of eternity, touching their past and bringing it into the future.
Undeniable sorrow filled his empty being, and the world faded around him. Wings, he thought. Where are my wings? Grant me wings, that I might once again fly to heights unreached, soar in the bygone rays of glory, and wait, oh just let me wait for my beloved.
His moments lost, without time he waited, and as the wings sprouted and grew, the pain left his weary soul. All feeling faded as he rose again into the skies, and knew.
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