Tales of Zendaria Chapter One - Forest and Flame by alexander-wookiee, literature
Literature
Tales of Zendaria Chapter One - Forest and Flame
In a land far away, very, very long ago, there lived a girl named April. She was a Princess, the Princess in fact. Her father was King of the land of Zendaria, known to all as a place of peace and wisdom. April’s mother had died when she was young, but her father had always done his best to embrace his feminine side – despite his flowing beard and obvious lack of grace. They would sew together, he taught her about flowers and animals, music and poetry, art, everything he believed a Princess should know. The only trouble was, she often grew so terribly bored. “Dad, why am I reading this?” April asked impatiently. “It’s all about table manners and how to greet other nobles, it even has a section on meeting my future husband!” “All important information for a girl your age April! And you’d do well to listen; there are some things a father can’t teach you, and how to court a Prince is definitely one of them.” “Well maybe I don’t want to court a Prince! And I certainly don’t want to
Sometimes you have to write just to write,
To fully form a thought it must be written down or spoken aloud.
And damn I'm tired of talking, so let's see what happens.
Things are changing in my life, for the better I think;
Moves are being made, transitions are in transit,
It feels as though things are settling.
In the process of.
The odd part is a change in aspirations,
Or at least an adaptation.
I don't believe dreams die with age,
They just change into something as you learn and grow into how the world works;
It quietens your rage when you comprehend the complexity of events
That are all shaping everything you meant and want to do,
And yo
I don't write anymore
It tires me
I don't write anymore
I'm no good at it
I don't write anymore
I just don't
I can't write anymore
I'm too afraid of failure
I can't write anymore
It's lost all meaning
Like this verse
I can't write anymore
What if it ends me
Maybe that's the secret
The dream
The love
Maybe if I write until it kills me
I'll live forever
I'm sat alone in a park, staring at my phone and occasionally watching passersby. I can feel him, here, sat next to me on this tarnished wooden bench. The stubborn S.O.B wants to watch over us. It's no wonder, protective papa lion that he is.
But I wonder; is it my imagination? Am I going a little crazy? Is it just because I miss him being a part of this world? Who knows.
What I do know is that I feel him. He's cracking wise at me right now, laughing with me, and encouraging me in the only way a Bostonite knows; loving mockery. He can encourage in other ways too, but I think this way makes him happiest. To pull no punches, but also to love
Rolling hills fade into clouds, as fog settles upon
this land. The scent of earth is inescapable, green becomes not
just a colour, more an emotion you feel to your very bones.
Mostly it is silent; nought but birdsong and bleating to
interrupt your thoughts – not that anyone could. Thinking
outweighs all outside influence, you are forced to
become one with your being, sounds and seeing what is
laid before you, you cannot help but stand in awe.
Peace unfolds awaiting your call, but mostly, it is silent.
A Farewell To Arms by alexander-wookiee, literature
Literature
A Farewell To Arms
It's a decadent kind of
Love. If it were chocolate it would be
Seventy-percent cocoa. Rich and sweet, but
Despite your intolerance you always want more.
Who could tolerate such an
Intense power? If not for the flavour, they
Reject its lingering beauty out of
Sheer fear. You can defeat it, just as you can
Defeat time and tide.
Before the might of this bittersweet cacophony
Kingdoms crumble, and all falls silent. No fanfares,
Nor war-drums, nor battle cries could pierce this
Fierce silence, and I fear this muddy perception no more,
For I, the King, have been overthrown.
"Does art imitate life or does life imitate art?"
Neither. Life is an art form of its own.
Life is art.
If you live your life as though it is a piece of artwork,
a blank canvas for you to paint on as you please,
an empty parchment waiting to be filled,
and you are the artist
filling it with ideas and dreams -
you are guaranteed success in all that you do.
When pen is put to parchment,
and brush to canvas,
that is when life becomes more than merely existing,
that is when the only limit is your imagination,
where you are God and the world falls at your feet -
that is living. That is art.
The haze has become all that blinds me,
binds me in this stagnant state.
With a bittersweet scent
it kisses my nose, not lightly -
it's heavy, forceful, as though
the power of the winds can no longer
offer salvation. Despite this,
I feel hope. Though it's been
shrouded in mystery, perfumed with pain,
there is oxygen in this weighted air.
It can fill my empty lungs, erase
my empty aspirations, and repair my
empty heart, as one day soon
I will breathe again.
Tell me now as all light fades,
What once a weary heart forbade,
Secrets of the moon and sun,
To know what this place has become.
Teach me of a world once found,
Upon honour, faith, justice abound,
Cries of pain cling to walls,
Once again, a dark future falls.
But lead me not to believe fools,
Nor to sit upon a liar's stool,
A past so great, it shall return,
'Tis a future we've yet to earn.
Hatred, anger, we will repeal,
As frozen hearts will once more feel,
A warmth they knew when they were young,
Go now, live free, my sacred son.
Sweltering heat in a panic room,
this is all that I may think of
as the ghost of the American dream
taps upon my skull. Oh, to be in that
claustrophobic cell of sweat and worry
is but a vacation.
What might I vacate?
Misery? Hatred? The damning
notion of nothingness as we
exit this world?
No. What I am vacating is
far more terrifying.
'Tis but a state in which almost
all of humanity dwell. Your
morning coffee, the drive to work,
the sloppy Joe in the cafeteria that's
never up to par, the boss that watches
your every move, that cute
waitress you flirt with every
day despite knowing it'll
never happen, the rush-hour traffic,