₦airaland Forum

Krystalxxx:
llaykorn dost seem

To be seething.

Ah,

Why dost thou
Think,
Fair maiden?

firestar:
We shared:
Joy...
Pain.
Guilt...
Shame.

We shared:
Pride...
Wine
Sting...

Sin...

LarrySun:
A brilliantly-written flash fiction. Well done, sir.

Wow! I'm so glad you did this. Thank you so much, sir!

I

rudepen:
lol..sire!

I thought you were GidiQuotes ni

Larrysun

texanomaly

timpaker

Divepen1

firestar

Ishilove

Royver

D9ty7

What do I need to improve on, abeg?

I haven’t really tried prose before, but it seems interesting. From what I’ve gathered, you find all the strings of words passing through your mind and pull a few of them together, weaving here, stitching there, making a sentence of stories. Unfortunately, the majority of my words are a bit broken and battered, and find it difficult to exist in harmony with their counterparts. So I leave them nesting like cobwebs in the corners of my head, and hopefully at some point they’ll heal over until I can twist them into some form of coherence.

I could make this very personal, I guess, because a lot of what I write turn out to be personal. I honestly don’t intend for it to happen that way. I could write a story about an alien on Venus, and the next thing you know it would be having an existential crisis and drowning in waves of metaphorical teenage angst.

Prose is difficult. I think I prefer poetry because it’s so much easier to be cryptic, although I’m trying my best to make this as uninterpretable as possible. Similes and metaphors can be severely overused, even pretentious, but they’re good insulators for all those meanings that I don’t want exposed to the outside.

Maybe I should start with something personal, and then turn it into a story. My life isn’t the story I wanted it to be, but I’m working on it. Maybe if I build enough words around it, it’ll become something worth noticing.

Hi. My name is Llaykorn (kind of). I’m probably a hundred years old. I’m extremely unremarkable, but I’m used to that by now. I can’t write prose, but I can’t really write anything so that’s OK. All I’m doing is playing around with letters and seeing what I can make out of them- a bit like a toddler with alphabet blocks. I’ve tried to turn it into something more serious in the past, but if I do, I’ll surely lose interest. I lose interest in things very easily, usually against my will, which is why I can go a few weeks or even months without doing anything.

I don’t know if it’s normal to lose interest in everything, but I’ve lost interest in exploring the mechanics of that. Maybe it’s just that the majority of people find something they’re incredibly passionate about, and then they cling on to it for life. But instead of a chore, they love it so much that it becomes enjoyable to work at it, to improve it. And they can drop it for a bit, but slip back into it like breathing, no matter how long the absence.

See, I’m not really sure how that works. I haven’t really found anything to give me that kind of passion, so far. I’d quite like to, but it’s also quite scary to think that I could find something that I would love enough to propel my entire life in a certain direction. Imagine spending your whole life doing something, and then losing interest in it or finding it to be hollow. Like the scientist sitting on the edge of the waterfall who taught his theory about the lives of prehistoric humans for his entire existence, and then one day new technology ripped all his ideas to shreds. So he just sat on a waterfall, and let himself slip over the edge.

I don’t want to end up on a waterfall, one day. I also don’t particularly want to spend the next 80 or so years starting things and never finishing them. It’s such a bad habit of mine, that I bet even my life will end up being an unfinished project. But maybe that’s all right. Things seem less appealing when they’re finished, because they lack that kind of mystery. Like, who knows how Schubert would have concluded his symphony? What would the final sentence of Anne Frank’s diary have been, if she knew it would be the last time she ever wrote in it? We don’t know, so we keep going back to the torn edges where the conclusion of the thing was ripped away by time- or lack of it.

And it’s strange to wrap somebody’s life in a neat little box and say that it was finished, because nothing is ever really finished. ‘Everything must come to an end’ is a lie. When we remember things, they go on and on in our memories, and they go on in history. The thing being finished in the physical and literal sense doesn’t necessarily mean that it is ended entirely. I don’t know what I’m writing. But when it comes to the world, everything continues constantly. If you believe in the afterlife, you believe that even after death comes an eternity of existing, whether that’s in Heaven or Hell or Candyland or whatever you think is real. So in a universe where nothing really ends, where is the place for the person who just wants to stop?
 
#Rambling

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