Daala
11-11-2007, 04:36 PM
Reclining, as I am, upon a tartan of forest green and midnight blue bordered in ebon, a thing of the earth and the ocean beneath a nightsky overhead, I find the spray of the nearby shore as delicate as confectionary, and as insubstantial besides. The cliffside is a stone's throw for a strutting sort of bucko away from the treeline, and adorned with a fine goatee of a particularly silky breed of grass. A romantic take upon life demands that, if I am to recline upon a tartan upon a grassy cliffside by the shore, I must do so with crystal: bottle and glass.
This particular bottle is a particularly elegant varietal, expensive enough to warrant only a special occasion; that I lack such cause for celebration yet drink nonetheless seems exemplary of my need for such an occasion. A single bumblebee buzzes its way to the nearly full bottle, slipping down the open throat and surely finding itself interred in crimson tides. A listless rheumy look takes my eyes as...ah, but I really haven't a clue what my eyes looked like. But it works better that way, more literary; one's physical self should reflect one's emotional self, even if reality doesn't fit into that. I felt rather listless and rheumy so I like to pretend that my eyes looked the same. In any case, my listless and rheumy eyes didn't blink as I poured this nearly full bottle upon the grass until the bee came tumbling out. I'm not sure if it was born from some compassion, or a need for validation, providing myself with evidence that I'm not quite completely heartless. Perhaps it is indicative of my malaise, that I sacrificed a cultured wine to the earth.
I need a purpose. Or rather, something to occupy my time, to kill off thoughts. For thoughts, when unchecked, tend to run rampant, and must be stamped out before the mind's field becomes overrun, and the weeds of insecurities and destructive ruminations choke the sun from the decent yet fragile sunflowers that are worthwhile thoughts.
This particular bottle is a particularly elegant varietal, expensive enough to warrant only a special occasion; that I lack such cause for celebration yet drink nonetheless seems exemplary of my need for such an occasion. A single bumblebee buzzes its way to the nearly full bottle, slipping down the open throat and surely finding itself interred in crimson tides. A listless rheumy look takes my eyes as...ah, but I really haven't a clue what my eyes looked like. But it works better that way, more literary; one's physical self should reflect one's emotional self, even if reality doesn't fit into that. I felt rather listless and rheumy so I like to pretend that my eyes looked the same. In any case, my listless and rheumy eyes didn't blink as I poured this nearly full bottle upon the grass until the bee came tumbling out. I'm not sure if it was born from some compassion, or a need for validation, providing myself with evidence that I'm not quite completely heartless. Perhaps it is indicative of my malaise, that I sacrificed a cultured wine to the earth.
I need a purpose. Or rather, something to occupy my time, to kill off thoughts. For thoughts, when unchecked, tend to run rampant, and must be stamped out before the mind's field becomes overrun, and the weeds of insecurities and destructive ruminations choke the sun from the decent yet fragile sunflowers that are worthwhile thoughts.