Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → The Words and Workings of Wolf

And so there you are.

I'm not sure if I can say much about that, but I'm glad you decided to write something.

If the above was a work of fiction, no doubt I would comment upon it's insightfull brilliance towards the nature of this character. However, despite this being as truthfull as you feel (or wish to express) I can only convey how interested I am at your wish to continue writing despite what we the readers thought of as the pre-hiatus farewell. You clearly have the urge to write, so write you did. Perhaps it is simply because the urge to write out those masteries of expressive feelings, those paradoxes of reflective despair is too strong. Or perhaps you write becuse you're bored. Only you can answer. All I can offer is my hearfelt thanks for the privelege of mentally devouring your words and workings. I hope to see more, but not as a reflection but from peacefull observations of what once was, what may be surrounding you and pure ideas.

(more terrible lyrics)

Summer

Do you remember last summer?
When we swore we would never
Forget this time
And, forget eachother?
Because I rember those nights
Where I said, "I love you,"
And you looked at me
With oh, so much wonder.

Where did that time go?
And why can't we go back?
Because I said, "I love you"
When I should have said,
"I need you."

You're long gone now.
But somehow
I find myself pacing
This worn down room.
Wondering where is that summer.

Where did that time go?
And why can't we go back?
Because I said. "I love you."
And I meant I love you
Forever.

So where did the time go?
And are you happy now?
Because I'm all alone
And you're in his arms
Forgetting our summer.
Forgetting our time,
Forgetting my promise.
Because I love you.
Forever.

more terrible lyrics

I just write them with the music in my head. There are bands I base a lot of that music off. This is definately a slow song, I pictured just an acoustic guitar with maybe a piano lightly trailing off at the end.

I love how when I first met you here I had no idea what your ramblings were about, but know I understand them almost completely. Except for that last part, I get it.

Lyrics are great, but music would be cool too.

Hren: That city's on fire. Burnin' all the houses and ale.
Rell: Ale doesn't burn.
Hren: You don't drink much, do ya?
Rell: He's going in.
Hren: Who's goin' where?
Rell: The tall bast*rd with the sword. He's going into the city.
Hren: That's city's on fire. Burnin' all the houses and ale.

A conversation between two characters in my novel

I had a feeling it was before you said so. It's interesting.
Why did you repeat lines one and two?

Because Hren is a drunkard so many conversations end up going around in circles or him just passing out.

Broken Valentine

Bitter flavour
Capering on my tongue
Like some fool's fool.
The fool that I am.
Is it not just then,
That I waste these worthless hours,
Wandering a too small house,
Impoverished in wealth and soul.
I thought so. I thought so.

I've naught but memories.
Fie on them though!
The are cheap, worn,
Faded images of a caress I no longer feel!
A kiss I no longer taste!
A glace I no longer meet,
For you have twisted me into
A position that is most irrevocably
Inconceivable to any sane mind.
And still the bitter fool capers,
Cackling and cavorting,
Always asking: "Is this just?"
"Aye!" roars the multitude.

Slow to slink back to my shadows
Where I weave my wounded web
Of scars and misdeeds
Of oft made mistakes.
Still the question is ever echoing.
And so I reply to the multitude:
I thought so. I thought so.

If ever you needed confirmation that I am a man without faith, then, this shall confirm it. I believe in nothing because to be a believer is to rely upon that belief. Thus far all my beliefs have failed me. I once believed in a god that was all loving, but that belief died when childhood tyrants tormented me into hating myself. I once believed in forgiveness, but too many betrayals have left me a miser of my trust and how I handle those who reject that trust. I no longer forgive or forget the crimes that have been committed against me. I also once believed in myself, but that too failed for I could no longer tell myself apart from the person I am and the person others wanted me to be. Oh I could argue that there were few obvious differences, but, such things are more often shown in the subtlety of one's characteristics.

I now believe in love, yet already that has betrayed me, and that belief is a fragile one. But, what do I truly know of love? Am I not simply a young, grief stricken, heartbroken, cynical writer who bemoans his fate? Am I not the truest form of pathetic existence that can be conceived? Or is that itself too worthy a conceit for the likes of me? Yet, believing in love is a hallow belief. Love is a cruel uncarring god that you must struggle for, that you must face yourself and admit to, it will broker no dishonesty with yourself or another. Dear Reader, do you understand? I must confess I am skeptical, because it is all so...irrelevant. Yes, irrelevant for belief in something accounts for nothing so long as you exclude all else except for that belief. Blind faith is a most dangerous drug.

I no longer understand myself after these periods of, what seem in hindsight, madness. I share some dark conceit to appease my ego that I am a genius of sorts. That I understand the workings of people and their minds better than most. That I can triumph, that I can bring awe and attention to myself with this supposed genius. Ha, arrogance was never something I could bear about myself, it all seems insultingly flimsy. Fake. Attention starved and half mad in some unfound way that allows me to be sane at the same time. Always wishing to know that I am good enough, but always knowing that regardless I will always consider myself, regardless of achiements, below such standards. To myself I shall never be good enough, the measure of my self worth is depthless and therefore there will be no hope of me ever realizing I live a lie.

My own awareness of this fact does little to mitigate the effects. I am aware of my flaws yet seem incapable of fixing them. So in truth I have placed my belief in love in the hopes that one day someone else will fill the void I find myself probing with unceasing introspection. Yes, dear Reader, I am in truth the worst kind of hypocrite. The one that is aware of his hypocrisy and yet will not, or cannot, change it. There is bitterness here, can you not taste it? It drowns out the sickly taste of the conceit of my own genius. What a broken fool I am. And young, is that not the worst kind?

Only The Fire Smiles

Have you not seen the beacons burn?
The call to unending conflict
In which kin is beset by kin.
O woe! Bitter tragedy is this
Where the only one who grins on
Is that mad king with his haory crown
And all the while the land burns
Beneath wave after wave of blistering seas.
Then, while madness may grin
Only the fire smiles
For there is truth behind its tale.
Far too much truth indeed.

People no longer realize that SADNESS is not some malformation of the spirit. That to feel pain, grief, longing is not something to bury under a mountain of pills
Society assumes everyone NEEDS to be happy that joy and contentment are the only true ways to live or what they would call joy and contentment but all that is is nothing but some borderline apathetic haze in which the vast majority sits drooling like dullards while some far off glorious leader of the media tells them how life should be
*And then I am called conceited when I view myself, in some small regard, as a type of genius when it comes to the working of words and the describing of the maligering that humanity now suffers from.
*Fie on them! I am no Eliot, I am no Shakespheare, but I am, by no means, some deluded, angst driven maniac who should be ignored! "Why should we listen?" they ask. Because I have a voice! I HAVE A VOICE! Which is more than I can say for most people these days. I have a voice.

There Is Peace Here

The light of the sailing sun
Glides across the plain
Warming the morn as birdsong creeps out
From the forest eaves
Deep within the dappled pines
Which cast shadows in hidden patterns
Ever shifting as the sun moves onward
Into the west where it briefly
Kisses the lofty spires of jagged peaks
Who's snow glistens like vast wealth
A thing of pearl and mirthril
And now, the sun sets
Into the roaring ocean that
At this moment
As the sun cats its weary head
Against the tempest pillow
Does it, the sea, grow calm
Only now, to end the day.

I loved "There Is Peace Here". It was very nice. The other works above were also good.