The white hot sun rose above my bed, and I wished I had not been thrust so far from where I once had lived. I longed for shelter where none laid to be had. I longed for cold, the shiver of which was a memory. I longed for stability, but I rolled my pad and set my jaw to walk or be left behind by my fellows.
The yellow sun and varied climes of my home were barred me by an endless exile, the terms of which were clear: "Dragoneth Backeri, to be held, life-long, on Sus, the desert exile."
Sunday, February 23, 2014
2.23
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Because I am a narcissist, I want to say I know this feeling. I don't.
ReplyDeleteI'm reading The Left Hand of Darkness, a book about a world called Gethen or Winter. They believe that hell is a hot, waterless world.
ReplyDeleteI think we all feel this way in quiet moments.
That may be the most depressing thing I've ever seen you say.
ReplyDeleteNot disagreeing with you, just ... man. When the world is quiet, all we think of is hell? It would explain why so many people cannot be alone with their thoughts, I guess.
I dunno. Dante's *Inferno* encased Satan in ice, and there's that Frost poem.
Not all quiet moments. But it sounded better the way I put it, so I left it. I'm intensely inclined to lie when it sounds better/is prettier.
ReplyDeleteAlso: the use of ice is also quite a beautiful thought. I don't know which I prefer.
ReplyDeleteYeah, when almost-the-right-word sounds nicer than the right-word. I get it.
ReplyDeleteYou're gonna make me quote the Frost poem, aren't you?
Well, as poetic as fire and ice are (a necessary pun), I've always been taken with the idea of hell in the mind. I don't think hell is really other people or even an inhospitable climate. I think the worst kind of hell is when one tortures oneself, for whatever reason.
One paralyzes oneself with a lethal dose of pain and self-loathing, and then even the most beautiful of places, the most loyal of friends, the best of circumstances only adds to the misery.