There's no doubt, no room for argument: I am here, I exist.
I am fully furnished, I am decorated modestly; everything that a house is expected to have, everything required of a home.
I can be spruced up, improved, painted nicely, walls filled with paintings or portraits, shelves with little knick knacks and trinkets; the layout can be changed, more decorations put up, the wallpaper replaced, or a complete renovation.
There is a hallway that plagues my mind as of late.
In those moments of wakefulness accompanied by dreary, often leafy, drowse.
That seldom trekked hallway, though many claim to have traipsed many-a-times in witless candour, a lofty pace one should not bother remembering, yet when pressed could hardly retain a memory.
It is that hallway I stare down at this moment.
Stretching no farther than two rooms betwixt from my entrance to the next, with curtained breathful windows mirroring those doorless walls so daftly decorated.
It was through those windows that I am allowed sight, as pale light shone through with ghostly wonder.
This is not a hallway of omen, no dilapidation to be had, nor was it tucked away in a hitherto unmentioned part of the manor.
It was, by all accounts, a perfectly finely constructed hallway.
Mundane, be it so, why then hasn't there been a ruffled mark upon the aged carpet? That eponymous path carved by footfalls of a daily commute.
Why then does no one tell tales of even the fashion of the walls, were it blue, green, or bare oak? A velveteen texture soft to touch, of the portraits hung of some figures I hardly recall.
Why… Has this profoundly unremarkable hallway haunt my dreams?
And why do my limbs refuse to take another step? With no eyes, or threat, no dread or demons to strike from the shadows.
Why can't I breach an inch into this hallway, so easily traversible…
I retreated, nonetheless, I did. With no fright or doom at my breath, I simply walked away.
I never did return to that hallway after that uneventful late evening.
Even as it burnt an image in my mind, and the urge to exit remains, I merely returned to the common.
O sanity, what terrible days to have you as a friend. When delusions could whisk troubles away in a jiffy, you barge in setting reality quite firmly. There is no hiding from you, is there?
---
"What begets such a sentiment, where insanity is more alluring than the sane? What woe betides surely not as horrible, or simply far too horrid, and far too mindful than mindless in witness."
---
I do often, almost too often, wonder if I had indeed gone mad, for what creature would dream or nightmare such thoughts so derisive or was it derived from? Yet here I am, with a mind as sound as ever to never be in a jacket. The question naturally asks, was there ever a sound to begin with?
Jocose Sonata
I am an empty house.
I exist.
I am here.
There's no doubt, no room for argument: I am here, I exist.
I am fully furnished, I am decorated modestly; everything that a house is expected to have, everything required of a home.
I can be spruced up, improved, painted nicely, walls filled with paintings or portraits, shelves with little knick knacks and trinkets; the layout can be changed, more decorations put up, the wallpaper replaced, or a complete renovation.
Anything to make it look pleasant and homely.
Anything to make it look nice and cozy.
But, at the end of the day, I am an empty house.
No one lives here.
1 week ago | [YT] | 1
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Jocose Sonata
A short story.
______________
There is a hallway that plagues my mind as of late.
In those moments of wakefulness accompanied by dreary, often leafy, drowse.
That seldom trekked hallway, though many claim to have traipsed many-a-times in witless candour, a lofty pace one should not bother remembering, yet when pressed could hardly retain a memory.
It is that hallway I stare down at this moment.
Stretching no farther than two rooms betwixt from my entrance to the next, with curtained breathful windows mirroring those doorless walls so daftly decorated.
It was through those windows that I am allowed sight, as pale light shone through with ghostly wonder.
This is not a hallway of omen, no dilapidation to be had, nor was it tucked away in a hitherto unmentioned part of the manor.
It was, by all accounts, a perfectly finely constructed hallway.
Mundane, be it so, why then hasn't there been a ruffled mark upon the aged carpet? That eponymous path carved by footfalls of a daily commute.
Why then does no one tell tales of even the fashion of the walls, were it blue, green, or bare oak? A velveteen texture soft to touch, of the portraits hung of some figures I hardly recall.
Why… Has this profoundly unremarkable hallway haunt my dreams?
And why do my limbs refuse to take another step? With no eyes, or threat, no dread or demons to strike from the shadows.
Why can't I breach an inch into this hallway, so easily traversible…
I retreated, nonetheless, I did. With no fright or doom at my breath, I simply walked away.
I never did return to that hallway after that uneventful late evening.
Even as it burnt an image in my mind, and the urge to exit remains, I merely returned to the common.
Yet in my dreams, I reach that door at the end.
I always wake up before it opens.
2 weeks ago | [YT] | 1
View 1 reply
Jocose Sonata
O sanity, what terrible days to have you as a friend.
When delusions could whisk troubles away in a jiffy, you barge in setting reality quite firmly.
There is no hiding from you, is there?
---
"What begets such a sentiment, where insanity is more alluring than the sane? What woe betides surely not as horrible, or simply far too horrid, and far too mindful than mindless in witness."
---
I do often, almost too often, wonder if I had indeed gone mad, for what creature would dream or nightmare such thoughts so derisive or was it derived from? Yet here I am, with a mind as sound as ever to never be in a jacket. The question naturally asks, was there ever a sound to begin with?
1 month ago | [YT] | 5
View 2 replies