Hello!

If you noticed the post about the poems from before then you might have noticed my random writing and this post is supposed to be something of a follow-up to that content. This post will follow up a short story that nothing came of that was written give or take two years ago by me. Same story as before there is no real meaning, just felt like it would be a waste for it to be left as scrap in the mass of my random writing.

The Figurehead

Through a windowsill the rain blew in, in manners almost as if the mild defence of the human mind could not keep away those memories, memories of their saddened pain of drenched teary days and although neither one of the two men of the now crowded inn said anything, they knew, they knew that their hollowed livelihood were of no end and that for every shed tear of the gods above, the men below would yet yell out and exclaim their shallow belief and blessed tears that their wretched lives were of the quality goods to which the oysters lying deep below the seaweeds darkened decay. There was no need for chatter, neither of the two men said who was who, for they knew that in this world, the quandary of the voice were of no need. For as the men saw it they were the only part of the world that still remained undimmed and flaming akin to that of their dreams - the creaking of the wooden floorboards, the moaning of the drunken maid on the floor above and the pianists flaccid hand movements were that of the finest quality in this world - there was and could be no greater joy and yet all that to which the fellow man's dream had held had now long since lost it’s harmonious glamour of an illusion, an illusion of bliss, an illusion of freedom being brought to the prisoners in free men’s clothing. 

A lightning strike suddenly shook the world and the cheery scenery fractured like the painting of a masterpiece getting torn to shreds by it's master and in the shriek of a world dying, the sudden silence of a requiem turned their attention to the sound of water splashing down from above. Falling silently down on the ship of a journey never ending going toward that of the infinite, the small tears going down the outline of a mast, out over the dark musty floorboard and out through what looked like the captain's cabin, spreading ever thinner to the ends of the horizon, where they could see their Midas touched fingers’ blinding golden land, their dream, a dream whose sudden path shone over a world where happiness could not coexist, a world with wounds deeper than that of body, a world whose grandure layed deeply rooted high above that of others but with the pains written be above the chiseled stone of sorrowed tears and strove the men to flee and with the fear of a thousand tears to stand out on top of the figurehead of their doom. Down below a darkness deeper than that of the void and every chasm in the whole world sang out to them, begging for their warm plea and with the sudden rocking of a lightning strike, the rain and the men fell down, back below. With it’s arms open the silence embraced them, dastardly did it ring out over where their true dream laid, way beyond the silence of a million seas."The dreamer is but the orchestra, the dirigent meanwhile, is that to which lay unknown, the lusting anger of something outside that of our own, to that of which the strings to which this world upholds lay below", who had said those words? Where were the ones below whose hungering plea could still be heard for all up above that of the masts, for those quiet enough to hear? Who were they and where did they come from? They had forgotten. Once more their consciousness darkened and in the sound of the rupture of a sinking ship a voice cried out, deep below:

''Wake up sleepyheads!''