Sincerely, Adham ap None
"And she said that the woman over there was being a downright bitch to her! I think we should do something," a wife says to her husband, while their daughter looks with tearful eyes to them both. Over in the corner the subject of their conversation, the bitch, stands. A girl, a little younger than myself it looks like. Piercing stare; filled with judgment.
I hear the rain outside, close my eyes, and fall in to my thoughts. I've been doing it a lot lately, and it's made me realize, I cannot stand myself. I see all the things I should have done, all the things I could have done. I see all the insults to mother that I should have reacted to. My sins, and I'm my own judge, and my own jury. I'm my own God. If I had lightning, I think I'd shoot it at myself.
I'm lazy. So lazy. I know what I want, but I haven't the mental determination to attack it. All I want to do is sit here thinking; thinking about the plays, the poems - thinking about mother. Despising father. Thinking about sister, and the thoughts before. I thought about killing her. I even threatened it. Would I really? I don't know. The way I lounge about, I'm not inclined to do anything. Picking up a sword is beyond me. Training myself so I don't get tired toting that blade about is beyond me. The rain is so soothing...
And the people are not. I'm stuck inside listening to each false syllable. Listening to them go through the routines of life, routines that they know. If somebody laughs, they laugh. If somebody dies, they cry. If somebody lies, they don't ask why - they just lie too.
I hate it, but what am I to do?
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Slings and Arrows Pt. 2
Adham ap Otis
Dear Mother,
It has been a month since I saw you last
(Your face shallow'd, like a grave)
I've been my own, as you asked
(In a voice that was not far from a rave)
Wish I could join you, for I say
There's no joy without you
Not one, single, day
I'm crying. Madness, to joy, to crying, within the day. I really must be going crazy. I'm sobbing like a child. Crying, from a single thought. I miss her.
If sister could see me now. This is real emotion. The gods above couldn't receive better.
26th, End of Spring, 1087
Dear Mother,
It has been a month since I saw you last
(Your face shallow'd, like a grave)
I've been my own, as you asked
(In a voice that was not far from a rave)
Wish I could join you, for I say
There's no joy without you
Not one, single, day
I'm crying. Madness, to joy, to crying, within the day. I really must be going crazy. I'm sobbing like a child. Crying, from a single thought. I miss her.
If sister could see me now. This is real emotion. The gods above couldn't receive better.
26th, End of Spring, 1087
Troubled
Adham ap Otis
Why not a stranger? Why not there? Why not now? I needed to channel my anger some way.
Puppets! Masked puppets dancing in the most common of ways. Oh compassion, boo-hoo, oh - joy! Oh, poetry, LOVE! It makes me sick, physically ill almost. An odd sensation fills the pit of my stomach when I go through it in my mind. It was fun, really, making them dance, pulling their strings. If I had spouted just a few stanzas, she would have gotten in bed with me, she would've been at my beck and call.
Fun and sickening at the same time.
Is this life? The pointless dances, the conforming movements? Father would have me believe so. Sister makes it seem so - and is everyone the same, or are all the interesting people just hiding underground so that they aren't killed by the ignorant masses? Better they hide underground. There are demons and Vek all around up here, or so everyone says. It makes me wonder why father would forbid me from the forests and the road. He's so fearful, yet he has complete faith in society and the guard. Just another fool, another puppet.
That man, that man at the end ruined it. Ruined it completely. I was out of words to shoot at him - he was simply that overbearingly stupid in the way he approached. Arrogant, high and mighty. Maybe next time, maybe next time.
I'm shaking with the joy, or is this anger? Adrenaline?
Am I going crazy?
26th, End of Spring, 1087
Why not a stranger? Why not there? Why not now? I needed to channel my anger some way.
Puppets! Masked puppets dancing in the most common of ways. Oh compassion, boo-hoo, oh - joy! Oh, poetry, LOVE! It makes me sick, physically ill almost. An odd sensation fills the pit of my stomach when I go through it in my mind. It was fun, really, making them dance, pulling their strings. If I had spouted just a few stanzas, she would have gotten in bed with me, she would've been at my beck and call.
Fun and sickening at the same time.
Is this life? The pointless dances, the conforming movements? Father would have me believe so. Sister makes it seem so - and is everyone the same, or are all the interesting people just hiding underground so that they aren't killed by the ignorant masses? Better they hide underground. There are demons and Vek all around up here, or so everyone says. It makes me wonder why father would forbid me from the forests and the road. He's so fearful, yet he has complete faith in society and the guard. Just another fool, another puppet.
That man, that man at the end ruined it. Ruined it completely. I was out of words to shoot at him - he was simply that overbearingly stupid in the way he approached. Arrogant, high and mighty. Maybe next time, maybe next time.
I'm shaking with the joy, or is this anger? Adrenaline?
Am I going crazy?
26th, End of Spring, 1087
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
A scrap of paper, written front and back
Untitled, by Adham ap Otis
Anne: The words were bold on your tongue,
Now dried and o'er used, too much in the sun,
Passionate light has dried them good.
Might you speak those words again?
Could you,
Would you,
Just once more?
Wessire: With the dawn, each day seems wronged,
Light jigs and dances 'round,
But I've no heart to be found.
The oncoming of night steals over, cold and right.
I may have loved, and held you tight,
But no more - not again - there is no 'might'.
The oncoming of night... horrible, horrible line. I might as well talk about asphyxiation on black shades and wights. Wights... that's good. Wights.
(Written to the side) In the shade which serves me right, I'll make love with a blackened wight, for I may have loved, and held you tight, but no more, never again, there is no 'might'.
Better. Wessire - where did I come up with the name? Maybe I'll change it.
I don't usually spend my time frequenting taverns, I leave it to the drunks and whores (sister sister, oh sister mine), but it's been a great supply of scraps. Little pieces that I can continue to write on, and also a great supply of great annoyance. Do -all- women act like that? Masks of makeups, armor over a conscience. Does it even feel anymore, or like a smith's stone in wartime; overused? Mother would never act like that. She was as pure as Cymur's flame in matters of the heart. Oh, mother...
She was nobility. The silk and finery gives them the right to do whatever they want, with enough gold leftover to bribe the God's forgiveness. It was that, the simple fact that kept my tongue held back. Cowardly as always Adham, coward for not speaking, not snapping them out of their charade, not breaking their masks over a bent knee.
23rd, End of Spring, 1087
Anne: The words were bold on your tongue,
Now dried and o'er used, too much in the sun,
Passionate light has dried them good.
Might you speak those words again?
Could you,
Would you,
Just once more?
Wessire: With the dawn, each day seems wronged,
Light jigs and dances 'round,
But I've no heart to be found.
The oncoming of night steals over, cold and right.
I may have loved, and held you tight,
But no more - not again - there is no 'might'.
The oncoming of night... horrible, horrible line. I might as well talk about asphyxiation on black shades and wights. Wights... that's good. Wights.
(Written to the side) In the shade which serves me right, I'll make love with a blackened wight, for I may have loved, and held you tight, but no more, never again, there is no 'might'.
Better. Wessire - where did I come up with the name? Maybe I'll change it.
I don't usually spend my time frequenting taverns, I leave it to the drunks and whores (sister sister, oh sister mine), but it's been a great supply of scraps. Little pieces that I can continue to write on, and also a great supply of great annoyance. Do -all- women act like that? Masks of makeups, armor over a conscience. Does it even feel anymore, or like a smith's stone in wartime; overused? Mother would never act like that. She was as pure as Cymur's flame in matters of the heart. Oh, mother...
She was nobility. The silk and finery gives them the right to do whatever they want, with enough gold leftover to bribe the God's forgiveness. It was that, the simple fact that kept my tongue held back. Cowardly as always Adham, coward for not speaking, not snapping them out of their charade, not breaking their masks over a bent knee.
23rd, End of Spring, 1087
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Slings and Arrows
Sincerity, courtesy of Adham ap Ass
I found out the best phrase, as a summation of all the ruined thoughts that form her (thoughts that I picture to be spiked and jagged, like a chaotic line of machines coming up on the horizon to lay siege on my tolerance).
She bears depression like a ring of jewels, like a circlet wrought of gold on her head. Funny that I should describe it as a circle. That's what it is after all - subconsciously I know it runs in cycles. But it should be a complete cycle, whereas she breaks it. So what's wrong with the imagery of a circle? Right, the crown should be broken in a place, not to far from where it starts, and just past the finery of all the jewels which show like the eyes of Cymur, depicted in the painting.
Astounding that two of the same blood can boldly claim so different heads. She can take her crown and join the street for his bread, and may she harbor the plague between her legs. I should've punched him! I should have, should have struck him, tackled him, and took her back into the home. All those words he said to me.
'And when she rocks against me... it's all the harder...'
I'm a seething, Vek-gutted, coward. Next time, next time I'll have a knife.
No, what am I writing - I can't write that.
And all the while he just lets it happen, lets it pass him, while he dried the plaster of a dull-witted look and a smile across his face. How I want to burn their conception down! Though; what can I expect from a man half-dumb? Thank Elbahn I got her blessings rather than his. And now she's...
No. Don't write on that. I need to sleep, and if I get thinking on that... I'm already thinking on it. And the night echoes outside my window, saying come, come. I have things I could be doing, don't I? He'll kick me out if I venture out of the city, cut me off from his funds. If he's to make this my prison, I'll at least have eccentric freedom within it, and with all those masked-smiling-bastards.
Besides, I can never go to sleep when I start thinking of her.
Signed - 19th, E. Spring, 1087
I found out the best phrase, as a summation of all the ruined thoughts that form her (thoughts that I picture to be spiked and jagged, like a chaotic line of machines coming up on the horizon to lay siege on my tolerance).
She bears depression like a ring of jewels, like a circlet wrought of gold on her head. Funny that I should describe it as a circle. That's what it is after all - subconsciously I know it runs in cycles. But it should be a complete cycle, whereas she breaks it. So what's wrong with the imagery of a circle? Right, the crown should be broken in a place, not to far from where it starts, and just past the finery of all the jewels which show like the eyes of Cymur, depicted in the painting.
Astounding that two of the same blood can boldly claim so different heads. She can take her crown and join the street for his bread, and may she harbor the plague between her legs. I should've punched him! I should have, should have struck him, tackled him, and took her back into the home. All those words he said to me.
'And when she rocks against me... it's all the harder...'
I'm a seething, Vek-gutted, coward. Next time, next time I'll have a knife.
No, what am I writing - I can't write that.
And all the while he just lets it happen, lets it pass him, while he dried the plaster of a dull-witted look and a smile across his face. How I want to burn their conception down! Though; what can I expect from a man half-dumb? Thank Elbahn I got her blessings rather than his. And now she's...
No. Don't write on that. I need to sleep, and if I get thinking on that... I'm already thinking on it. And the night echoes outside my window, saying come, come. I have things I could be doing, don't I? He'll kick me out if I venture out of the city, cut me off from his funds. If he's to make this my prison, I'll at least have eccentric freedom within it, and with all those masked-smiling-bastards.
Besides, I can never go to sleep when I start thinking of her.
Signed - 19th, E. Spring, 1087
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