9,653 posts
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Post by Cailean on Aug 14, 2015 14:29:39 GMT -8
There is a volume laid atop a stack of books somewhere within Cailean's home. It has a handsome, supple binding of tooled leather, dyed black, and contains pages of vellum. A small length of twine has been wrapped around it a couple of times and then tied with a simple bow knot. Inside, the writing is neat and legible, though there are many places within the writing that is scribbled or crossed out where the author was clearly frustrated. The first page: I have decided to write. This comes as a surprise to me, as I have never been one to bother with a record of my life. Already, I already. See? This requires a skill that I have never developed. It is? seems? seems ungainly and erratic and I only have this one book in which to write. I am overwhelmed with thoughts of words and the order of them and where it is I should put my commas and periods. I think of tearing this page out already. This is a waste to me, I have already wasted this page, the ink, the expesnive expensive vellum with my mistakes, and I would be horrified to think that someday, someone might read this and know how embarrassingly adolescent my writing is. I know that if I do this, I will butcher this tome, tearing out those pages with which I am frustrated most with even if I decide to continue with it. There are too many words. The next sentence on the page is written in a lighter hand, the ink not so deeply scored into the page.I will keep this page here as a reminder to myself that even though I might ruin an elegant, expensive, thing that might have held much potential, that I will take it as an allegory and press on. I always have.
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9,653 posts
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Post by Cailean on Aug 14, 2015 14:33:09 GMT -8
13th of AugustI wonder where I should begin. I realize now that my age may have much to do with my sudden decision to take up the quill. I have lived for thirty-five years. There. That is the first fact about me, of which I've decided just now that I will be sparing in the details of my identity, lest I be embarrassed by the discovery of these writings. I am also human. I think that makes this easier for me, as I, perhaps, have fewer things to write about as compared to the longer lived races of this world. I spoke with an elven woman yesterday, who assured me that her lenghtened years lengthy lifespan only gives her more time to struggle with with her questions. I thought to myself that it would be nice not to feel the creep of age. Like most of my kind, I'll either die while I'm in the middle of figuring things out or if I manage to survive long enough that I have, I'll die soon after. I think this, along with my age, is why I'm trying to sort my thoughts out here. Writing your thoughts down is supposed to help and I don't want to die, not having only learned so little. I plan on speaking with this elf again, if for no other reason than because she struggles too and I find common ground with her there. Upon reading this over, I realize that it might be taken that the woman above has been to my home. She has not.There is another woman in my home now. I've been sitting and watching her in between attempting to do my writing here. She's a lithe creature, with a tiny waist and delicate, elfin features. Her backside would make an entire company of men come to a tongue dangling halt, but I think I appreciate her breasts the most. They're modest, but I find them delightful. All of that means nothing, however, when she looks at me. She has expressive eyes, large and green, yet deep and dark and filled with mystery and promise. They're eyes that arrest me. When she smiles, her cheeks dimple and her small mouth becomes generous. She seems easily amused. to whomShe is not my wife, however, nor is she the woman who I've given my heart to. I share my bed with her and she shares her body with me and and I think she means to heal me with it. I accept, greedily. She's told me that I'm not to bring their ghosts with me to bed, and I've lied to her. and told her that they'd not.I told her that they would not. What kind of man does that make me? I know I am not a very good man, not even a decent one, and this is just the beginning of my guilt. I ask again, how should I begin? I am a man in the middle of his life. That which came before is the sum of my life, containing the reasons why I do what I do. Do I write for me or do I write for someone else to understand? Is it the same thing? Laughable. I have a long way to go.It's become easier to write. I've only made one correction, though I'd rewrite this entire page if I chose. I choose not to.
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