~the well of dreams....
Aug. 11th, 2002 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
reenkai thought love was like paper airplanes
like a wish made in a park on a sunday, and the breeze takes it away
i thought love made us like children
looking up and smiling
into the distance, where the sun would rise...
i thought wishes could float. and love was a fountain. where hearts were pennies.
& you could cry and fight
& scream and run away
but even as you were running,
the one who loved you would be holding your hand.
and if it's not-- or wasn't-- or couldn't be--
i wouldn't know what to do with myself
i would be useless.
i wouldn't be needed, in that world.
it seems obvious, doesn't it? that neither life nor love nor people,
really, are kind.
and that seems almost like an excuse.
and it is. that's all it is. an excuse.
~~
i don't know when it became "het" love, to me. and when... when i forgot my initial dreams of just there being stories about "you" and "me". and a prince could love the princess, or he could love a prince. like in those late-19th-century art-deco-ish fairytale book illustrations, by arthur rackham and edmund dulac and kay nielsen and so on.
i still identify with the pale maiden, sitting alone under a tree, singing to her lost love. it wasn't really about the ending, it was about the searching. "i would cross rivers and mountains and endless deserts for you"...
every now and then, i just need to replenish that, my source of inspiration, the well of my dreams.
~~
it's a twilight land, where it could seem like the sky is always a strange, silverish shade of purple, and the stars are just starting to come out. the trees are dark and knotted together in the distance, their leaves starting to fall-- though through the heavy fog shrouding everything in sight, they're as insubstantial as ghosts. the wind sounds like a hopeless flute song, and every now and then you hear echoes of twinkling laughter, cruel and strangely childlike. as you walk the moors, your feet sink into the soft earth, and around every hill, more and more often, you start to see flickering, dancing lights. you get overcome with the sort of unnatural sleepiness that would put you on high alert, remembering all the cautionary tales of witch-fire and being lost in faery, if only you weren't too far in already. and even if you did realize your peril, you would keep on going, with your slow, tentative steps.
you're looking for someone. you may have even forgotten their name by now, but you know you'll recognize them when you need to. you carry nothing on you but a dagger, an old, well-used lute, and some dried cheese and fruit. soon you'll have to stop for the night, but you want to get to the forest you're so sure is so close, before that. you're lost in happier memories, as you walk, and poems are falling into place within your mind and then quickly dissipating, as you have no way to record them. so you give them up to the wind without regret, or perhaps the wind takes them from you. you smile as the breeze plays with your hair, seeming to tease you, push it into your eyes. once or twice you try talking to the fairies, quite conversationally, but no end. and perhaps you prefer it this way. the uncertainty. perhaps it is only the wind after all. you like your present solitude, it seems to give you strength of purpose.
you are surprised when you reach the strangely marked oak, you didn't know you were looking for. finally, you smell a fresh scent, moss and recent rain and an invigorating bunch of newly-grown herbs. you sink gratefully among the roots of the great tree, and close your eyes. you will wait here, until dawn, not sleeping a wink, but you must be dreaming, because all sorts of visions play themselves out before your unstartled eyes. you hold the locket that contains a lock of silvery hair between your nerveless fingers, throughout the night. you won't kiss it, or open it, or even look at it, and you haven't since you'd looped the leather cord around your neck. but it reassures you. this is who you are, and this is what you're doing, in this heatless land of hazy hill and fog and rain and reed-overgrown lake. you stare up at the sky, now sown with clear silver pinpricks of light. you name the stars, with all the unself-conscious inventiveness of the bard you never quite became. you withold the one name that means the world to you, from the stars. the name you won't speak of, and keep hidden in your heart. you keep yourself awake, day after day, night after night, spinning stories around yourself, endless silvery webs running ahead of you into the darkness. this is enough for you, for now.
and when the wind picks up, you're on your feet again, leaping past standing water, running past naked trees, trying not to trample wildflowers as you go.
P.S. ~~yummy!draco~~![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
quire is scaring me. how in the hell do you get this good at 16?? *waaaugh* :> not only does she draw kick-ass nekkid h/d, but she writes reeealy promising fic, where like, everyone gets a witty line or two, which amazes me. and it has plot. and believable!harry and draco. heh. as far as, they don't seem exaggerrated one way or another.
"This is Sirius telling us we need a totalitarian dictatorship again," said Lupin.
hee! ~:)
P.P.S.
HAHAHAHA
Find out what anime character cliche you are.
Goofy, sweet, and a bit perverted. Usually your type tends to put an outward appearance of being a nutcase when they actually are quite serious and emotionally torn....and then some are just nutcases.
like a wish made in a park on a sunday, and the breeze takes it away
i thought love made us like children
looking up and smiling
into the distance, where the sun would rise...
i thought wishes could float. and love was a fountain. where hearts were pennies.
& you could cry and fight
& scream and run away
but even as you were running,
the one who loved you would be holding your hand.
and if it's not-- or wasn't-- or couldn't be--
i wouldn't know what to do with myself
i would be useless.
i wouldn't be needed, in that world.
it seems obvious, doesn't it? that neither life nor love nor people,
really, are kind.
and that seems almost like an excuse.
and it is. that's all it is. an excuse.
~~
i don't know when it became "het" love, to me. and when... when i forgot my initial dreams of just there being stories about "you" and "me". and a prince could love the princess, or he could love a prince. like in those late-19th-century art-deco-ish fairytale book illustrations, by arthur rackham and edmund dulac and kay nielsen and so on.
i still identify with the pale maiden, sitting alone under a tree, singing to her lost love. it wasn't really about the ending, it was about the searching. "i would cross rivers and mountains and endless deserts for you"...
every now and then, i just need to replenish that, my source of inspiration, the well of my dreams.
~~
it's a twilight land, where it could seem like the sky is always a strange, silverish shade of purple, and the stars are just starting to come out. the trees are dark and knotted together in the distance, their leaves starting to fall-- though through the heavy fog shrouding everything in sight, they're as insubstantial as ghosts. the wind sounds like a hopeless flute song, and every now and then you hear echoes of twinkling laughter, cruel and strangely childlike. as you walk the moors, your feet sink into the soft earth, and around every hill, more and more often, you start to see flickering, dancing lights. you get overcome with the sort of unnatural sleepiness that would put you on high alert, remembering all the cautionary tales of witch-fire and being lost in faery, if only you weren't too far in already. and even if you did realize your peril, you would keep on going, with your slow, tentative steps.
you're looking for someone. you may have even forgotten their name by now, but you know you'll recognize them when you need to. you carry nothing on you but a dagger, an old, well-used lute, and some dried cheese and fruit. soon you'll have to stop for the night, but you want to get to the forest you're so sure is so close, before that. you're lost in happier memories, as you walk, and poems are falling into place within your mind and then quickly dissipating, as you have no way to record them. so you give them up to the wind without regret, or perhaps the wind takes them from you. you smile as the breeze plays with your hair, seeming to tease you, push it into your eyes. once or twice you try talking to the fairies, quite conversationally, but no end. and perhaps you prefer it this way. the uncertainty. perhaps it is only the wind after all. you like your present solitude, it seems to give you strength of purpose.
you are surprised when you reach the strangely marked oak, you didn't know you were looking for. finally, you smell a fresh scent, moss and recent rain and an invigorating bunch of newly-grown herbs. you sink gratefully among the roots of the great tree, and close your eyes. you will wait here, until dawn, not sleeping a wink, but you must be dreaming, because all sorts of visions play themselves out before your unstartled eyes. you hold the locket that contains a lock of silvery hair between your nerveless fingers, throughout the night. you won't kiss it, or open it, or even look at it, and you haven't since you'd looped the leather cord around your neck. but it reassures you. this is who you are, and this is what you're doing, in this heatless land of hazy hill and fog and rain and reed-overgrown lake. you stare up at the sky, now sown with clear silver pinpricks of light. you name the stars, with all the unself-conscious inventiveness of the bard you never quite became. you withold the one name that means the world to you, from the stars. the name you won't speak of, and keep hidden in your heart. you keep yourself awake, day after day, night after night, spinning stories around yourself, endless silvery webs running ahead of you into the darkness. this is enough for you, for now.
and when the wind picks up, you're on your feet again, leaping past standing water, running past naked trees, trying not to trample wildflowers as you go.
P.S. ~~yummy!draco~~
quire is scaring me. how in the hell do you get this good at 16?? *waaaugh* :> not only does she draw kick-ass nekkid h/d, but she writes reeealy promising fic, where like, everyone gets a witty line or two, which amazes me. and it has plot. and believable!harry and draco. heh. as far as, they don't seem exaggerrated one way or another. "This is Sirius telling us we need a totalitarian dictatorship again," said Lupin.
hee! ~:)
P.P.S.
HAHAHAHA
Find out what anime character cliche you are.
Goofy, sweet, and a bit perverted. Usually your type tends to put an outward appearance of being a nutcase when they actually are quite serious and emotionally torn....and then some are just nutcases.
