h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

It has happened again. I felt the need to write, and here’s what’s come of it:

And here it lies before me.
Some mere twenty-six keys emblazoned with sigils, characters, letters, unceremoniously dumped together, without consideration for what they could be.
Only for what they are.

But they flow beneath my fingers, they leap, and run, and flow to life.
Words spring from the vaults and crevices of my mind, entwining, snarling, binding together like a tapestry of mental hues, singing, changing, taking form.

They become an army, tall and strong, stretching from horizon to horizon, banners tattered but proud, their holders bewildered and sobered, like so many dolls in a child's game. But that all streams away,
like a fog stirred by so much a calm winter's breeze.

The words twist in the breeze, and twirl, becoming more tangible as they are read.
The inner script dictates, and they play the part.

A cold, snowy church-yard is plain in view, tombstones covered with snow like funeral shrouds, alone, forgotten, they stand, grim monoliths towering over the pure land, but still so very alone. Desolate, the tears of their owners long forgotten, the causes forgotten, the banners laid down and trampled, the battle won...

But now? Lost.

The unruly wind offers me no rest.
It blows again, the gossamer threads of this vision twisting and straining,
And they vanish once more. The words swell, the harmony and dissonance playing havoc and peace,
As the conductor makes his last performance, his work forgotten, his joy replaced by the dark monotony.
It brings tears to the eye of the beholder, to see his grand performance blend with the running river,
The dull, polluted channel of the mundane, the grand, glorious rapture that he creates, netted, caged,
and sold. Forgotten.

But not totally. Once, younger, he laughed, and sought out his dream. It ran though is fingers, and swept him about, like a leaf on an errant breeze. He found his art, his love and joy, and it was all he needed from such a mortal world. And then, back, to the sad form of what he is. Not what he could have been. The joy twisted, hanging just out of reach, spinning slowly in the wind, which once more flows about me, and lifts the sights from my view.

Again, the church-yard, but no longer does winter’s icy hand throttle the cheer from the earth. And the veils fall. Children now read the tears, and see the banners. An age goes by, and those children, children no longer, look at the fallen coat of arms, at the mud, and the blood stains. They see the glory, the triumph, and the pain, the cold arms that await them at end of the march.

They pick up the banners, and are no longer alone.

Alone in a dusty room, illuminated by a lowly bulb, a student finds papers, words, letters, clefs, notes. He reads, he learns, he sees, and feels. He sees the tears, of joy and pain both, and sees the laughter, joyous and bitter. He looks, through unclouded eyes, at the horrible, dreadful gray that had overcome these words, like a dust of the soul, longing to be swept away. He knows the price.

And pays it gladly, ignoring the mutters and the disdain.
The papers ruffle, and the wind picks me up once again. The words whisper, and crumble, like the masonry of a tower over the span of centuries, back into the shapes I know. The letters allow themselves to be placed back into their small cage, and then, with apparent grace, grow silent.

For now.


Well, see you all later. I'm gone skiing with my dad in Utah 'till the Twenty-Third!

*gasps slightly*

He is a poet!

S8slightly jealous*

I never could turn my hand at poetry...

I need to start writing again.

WHERE'S MY MUSE?

I know how you feel. I once wrote poetry, in the Christian 'vernacular'. It was a result of the times for me - some bad things were happening in my life at the time and I felt I needed to express myself. This was about 3-4 years ago, but I've not been able to write much since, until I did a skit for the church service a couple of weeks ago.

I wish I had my muse back, but alas, God has not seen fit to grant me that wish until recently. God willing, you will find yours again, and soon.

Yeah. It's off, twiddling around now. I can just barely see it...

*Squints, and waves. You somehow get the feeling that something waved back.*

Right. Not too long now.