I have evaluated my former position on the story, and I am glad to say that I have started writing again. I found the location and time period. Not a whole world, mind you, but only part of it. It is flavored with the history of ours, and yet somewhat out of place with it. Establishment of Character is the most amusing part. I am finding introductions extremely detailed, yet touched with that skewed perspective that I wanted to deliver clearly to the reader.

I admit to say, this is a story that I would have liked to read. That is not to be vain, but I wanted something solid. Something believable and yet.... something slightly wrong, something slightly supernatural. Just a hint.

The feel is to me like walking through the a gothic structured hall, lined with stain glass windows. It is old, doctrinal, full of law... of belief... and how one translates it into one's actions.

I have found myself unable to sit down and write my story as I should be able to do. The sheer thought of that is slowly driving me crazy. I need to confront the issue, yet I am unable to discern from where it has initially flared up.

I need to write. I need to. Somewhere between the plot and the character profile sheets, I am loathed to admit, my character doesn't belong in the plot. Does this mean I will have to invent a new world around my Character. I think I might have to, as it is. Which I will regret I assure you.

I need to figure out what direction I am going in, and that means and revision, and a rewrite, using some of my already written scraps as a base. The Characters will remain within the story, almost none to be removed.

But I have to force my goals into the organized and numbered sheets that will help me to focus the direction. I do hate how long it takes to write a civilized profile, but I hope that in the end I will be able to know my plot better.

Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men.


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer -

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow


This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

~T.S. Eliot~ "Hollow Men"

This Poet Captured what I have often longed to say. "There is a Falseness in Humanity and this shall be out fate."

His worlds stun me to this day, how closely they relate to the happenings around us. He was the Poet with eyes that saw the future and the past.
Just reflecting...
His words say it all.

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against the powers, against the world rulers of this present darkness, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil days, and having done all, hold your ground...Ephesians 6:12-13.

These worlds are so brilliant, so incredible that when taken to heart, it is in the remaining of being unchanged by the corruption around you. Heads and shoulders above the trivial play of our kind.

Perhaps it is in the longing to understand something that I was never meant, and never will understand. I do not live for this world. Not yet. I hope that I may not lose those feelings as the years pass by.

Some facts about myself below:
eight in all seeing as supposedly people are doing it.

1. I don't seem to see eye to eye with almost anyone.

2. Elsewhere is an understatement.

3. Strong lights, too much noise, dry paper, and dog collars, disturb me greatly.

4. I never give you a forward answer and if I do, I contradict myself.

5. I have an awe about my religion. I am literally enthrawed by it.

6. My watch is never set to the right time.

7. I like reading backwards and upside-down.

8. I have the lamest sense of humor and laugh about things that make no sense, like burnt dinner, recycling, sand bags, ashes, and ice.

Speechless, I find myself, speechless save that hymn that threatens to overtake my conscience, devouring it one tendril of thought at a time. Verse, hymns, strange lyrics converted to a silent song, of which I will never hear.

“There is no design, nor motion of game
On a board of seven kings, eleven queens, and one dark name.”

Thus:
“A Requiem for a Villain”

A ventricle of blackened blood, a vein, a filament of passionless fluid.
A current so cold, it might divulge the self-centered heart that pumps it’s icy life.
Deduce that the vision that steers this specters passage, is skewed and warped, relinquishing at last to the ruthlessness which it imposed upon itself.

For every blow inflicted mercilessly upon his victims, he strikes himself severest of all.
He numbly yields to his own blade, which he steadily works into the muscle and tendons of his consciousness. It is not in the theory of him unfeeling, it is the fact he has felt too much.

It is in the imploding of his constrained heart that his gaze empties into little more than fragments of frozen glass. That he does not serenely observe, but rakes with violent and brutal scrutiny.
By what fate does his path diverge upon the innocent and the guiltless?
By what web does he reel in his victims with illusions of empathy?
Faceless but for his trenchant mask, an overlord of pretense, first of crow-skin then of sheep, he weaves among society with ever increasing disdain.

Within his waxen soul, there pounds a rhythm of hymn. A Psalm perhaps of the Principalities, by this verse and the next. They reverberate eternally an anamnesis to a former differentiation between the powers of the spiritual realms. Even in the Earthly Empires, there are foundering angels amongst men.

(This is the first part of the three part Poem I am writing)