Nostalgia

Hi Angels!

What I wanted to say about this was - it was surreal. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I love a good dash of surrealism, and that it's not a very common theme to come by. Your imagery is wonderfully descriptive, and I don't know any way to improve on your current writing style. Of course, I dare say that practice will bring out an even better writer in you than you already are. So keep on with what you're doing.

Robyn.

Wow, Angels.

I just read the blog you wrote and decided to come read some of your work.

You are the hollow man whose soul was carved and gutted by father time. Move on, he whispers, move on. But you cannot. For your chest was stripped of a heart, and that heart forever remains chained to this city, this world.

Both your body and mind are tired of this game. Drenched in the stinging saltwater of your tears, they cry to you, shedding tears of their own. They beg for you to let go, let go…
Let go.

Whoa. I'm totally jealous of how good your writing is! That was really good. Keep it up!

I love this! I must say, you write wonderfully. The ending was perfect actually, I saw no changes or anything that could be done to make this story better. Keep up the good work!

This was my favorite line:

Prisoner to what was once your happiness, you do not wear the shackles. The shackles of the past wear you. Wear you down. Wear you out.

Hi! First, I just want to say that this is really good. I can't really find much to comment on, but I did feel a bit of rhythm lapse in the first paragraph. (Note: This is just a personal preference on how I think the first paragraph would sound better as. Feel free to ignore this if you like it the way it is, but I just thought I'd voice this.)

You scream, but no one can hear you. You speak, but the world cannot comprehend your forgotten tongue. The people bear no ears for your words, no mouths to offer understanding. No hearts to sympathize with the ache of your own. In this familiar town, you now wander as a stranger, your importance non-existent. Identity omitted from the minds of its inhabitants.

Wow. This is amazing!! I love the emotion and your writing style is wonderful.

Angels-Symphony wrote:NOTE: I had to write this for APLangComp and the ending was rushed because I ran out of time. It ended up being icky and not the way I wanted to end it, so I didn't include it because I'll finish it sometime when I'm not busy xD

You scream, but no one can hear you. You speak, but the world cannot comprehend your forgotten tongue. The people bear no ears for your words, no mouths to offer understanding, no hearts to sympathize with the ache of your own. In this familiar town, you now wander as a stranger. Your importance non-existent. Identity omitted from the minds of its inhabitants.
You are the hollow man whose soul was carved and gutted by father time. Move on, he whispers, move on. But you cannot. For your chest was stripped of a heart, and that heart forever remains chained to this city, this world.
This memory.
Prisoner to what was once your happiness, you do not wear the shackles. The shackles of the past wear you. Wear you down. Wear you out.
Both your body and mind are tired of this game. Drenched in the stinging saltwater of your tears, they cry to you, shedding tears of their own. They beg for you to let go, let go…
Let go.
Your grip loosens. The statue breathes. But your chest is empty. Your heart, wherever it lies, shrieks. And the shriek is omnipresent. It does not waver like the dying lights in your eyes.
Gnarled and exhausted as your hands may be, you drop to your knees and mold the empty air with your fingers. Helpless, and desperate not to be.
The map, you call out, Give me the map!
Like your identity in this world, the map does not exist. Press your fingers against the cobbled floors and you will find no path to relive this distant reverie. You will find the frost that blankets the ground to be icy and cruel as reality.
Stifle your sobs and hold back the tears that threaten to fall like rain along the rugged contours of your face. Instead, drift as a cloud where the air of the city is thickest. Give it one last look and capture the best of the moment.
Before you say goodbye.
You get but one photograph, Father Time tells you. Choose wisely.
Will you let this memory remain a cheerful one? Or will you transform it into something bitter?
You dig a hand into your jacket pocket and discover a small metal object.
Didn’t you know you had the key all along?
Immediately, you unlock yourself, the click of the gears unwinding your frown. You toss the shackles behind you, wipe your antique tears on your sleeve, and dart for the meadow.
Descending, the light is descending. And the stream travels to the great beyond, its surface mirroring the inverse sea of blue. The air is thick here, but not thick enough to block the melody of her hum. Both rich and sweet, her voice is a treat that never expires.