Orators and their Prose

[Therin]

Grip

The song begins, a slow riff on piano, backed up by low cello. My heart rate slows. The violins float in, dancing over the foundations laid by the other two instruments. My eyes fall shut. The piano builds, the cello rises, the violins shriek to the heavens, the sky falls, the earth shatters and then...Lo, a lone, soaring note from the cello, and my soul is airborne. Visions dance across the backs of my eyelids as violins and piano take the cello's flight and give it wings, flapping higher on wings of musical aether. My arms rise to to embrace the sky, my soul rides on winds of sound to a far off place, where my worries are gone, my cares have vanished, and my reality ceases to exist. A place where dreams can come true, and the sorrow is finally quiet, even if only for the time being. Then we descend, the music and I, the piano and violins floating downward in a gentle spiral, and alighting in their roosts as the cello takes me the final few wingbeats back to my place. As my eyes open, I can still remember the vague shapes and fleeting images that only temporarily displaced my cold, hard, uncaring world. This is what music feels like to me.

[Nacht]

That is beautiful, Lews. You are teh awesome writer

*loving it*

[Excel Zero]

please don't hate me! Prose is where you speak it sorta freestyle right? cuz if it is, I wanna try...well I hope I am right

excel

[Therin]

Bored

Boredom sits upon my shoulder, screaming words into my ear. Boredom stands upon my knee, staring visions in my eyes. Boredom's hands are on my own, pushing me toward the edge. Boredom yells between my lips, speaking words of truth and un-.

Boredom...Well, boredom has become a friend of mine, he plays with me when no one's near. And yet, I detest this boredom, because in the grip of same, things are warped. I see things differently when bored, and often become a person who is not me. I pester endlessly those who are too tired of me to respond, and then I pester them some more, because it passes the minutes, ticks the crawling seconds toward the time when I find something else to do, like sleep, or read, or write, even. Days of boredom are the rarest of occurances, life has seen to that, rent, work, dealings monetary. And yet, here, when the world is outside, boredom, my faithful friends in times of nothing else returns, and resumes once more his seat upon my collarbone. So to those of you who have experienced boredom flowing from my keys, from my fingers, from my mouth, please.

It's him, not me.

I simply don't know what to do with myself.

So I give over, and allow Boredom to take over, for the sake of killing time.

-----------

Yes, Excel, prose is speaking freestyle. In this case, you sit down and you are not done until you get up, and you do not get up until you are done. That is prose.

[shadokastur]

It's been a while but I strike again!!
And you are all welcome to strike with me!


High and Mighty

Two steps. That's all it would take it seems. The knees buckle and meet the ground. Exhausted, it all comes to a rest and collapses. Shards of stained glass ring in a circus of tones as they rain to the stone floor. It seems so ironic that the bigger something gets the more prone to decay it becomes. The giants are more infected than the children and they cough and wheeze as they go on to die. As vile as this decompostion is, when looked at as part of the whole, it is seen to be a necessary step in the order of things. And, as such, takes on a mysterious beauty all its' own.


REY

[Cobalt Katze]

To be honest most of these could really be poems in their own right The definition of poetry isn't necissarily short lines, incomplete sentences, and abstract thoughts <^ ->

[shadokastur]

I usually see prose as more free form, conversational-type poetry.

REY

[Silver Adept]

I agree. No rhyme, no reason, but no meter, either. That's the difference between prose and poetry.

From here to Eternity

It is words on a page. It is tones played in sequence. It is an arrangement of light, shadow, pigment. There is nothing special in the individual parts of it. Taken separately, they have no effect. It is only when joined together that the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. The harmonies, the textures, the emotions, the energies - only when fused do they become powerful. The potential within them is great. Many are the wizards that join them together. Plentiful are the sorcerors who create them and give them life.

Yet when one hears both the masters and the novices, the same power is evoked. It has the power to summon the courage of men, to soften the hardest of hearts, to join souls together and to bid fellow crafstmen farewell. It speaks to us in a hundred thousand languages.

How do you cultivate this power? To what ends do you put its energy? What world will you build with it? What road will you take from here to eternity?

[Chrysia]

Ohh.. very nice stuff I see here. I'll give it a shot!
Uncaged

I gazed out the window from the comfort of the fire as the sun began to set outside the garden. I rose from the comfort of my house, warm yet confining, to journey outside where I always felt at peace. I traveled down the small gravel path, still wet with the light rain of a midsummer eve. As I went towards the woods, a cool breeze chilled my skin, still warm from the fire. Further from my house I began to stray, no longer aware of my surroundings. I walked, just walked for hours, not really trying to find my way back to the prison of my home. Absentmindedly I dragged my feet along the ever-fading path of this dying forest, looking for a place to rest my tired eyes, still hazy from the light of the once present blaze. From behind the bushes near the edge of the path, I heard the sound of running water and smelt its freshness. As I moved aside the brush to seek where it was coming from, my eyes wandered towards a dark corner. I could see a pond, but it was still very vague. As I walked closer, drawn by perhaps curiosity, I noted the surpassing beauty of this place. A small waterfall seemingly coming from nowhere, plunging into a glistening pool of cool, spring water. As I looked at the pool in a hypnotic state, the full moon was uncovered. Atop the water I now saw lights, but each moved as if it belonged to something, rather than only the reflection of the moonlight. As I stood perfectly still the place around me began to spin. Life was coming to the old, dead forest on this clear night. I did nothing, I did not move nor speak, not even breath. I could not believe what was happening. As the world around me began to change, I knew this is what I had dreamt of all these years.

[60 Cycle Om]

"Deus in adjutorium meum intende"

Translation:
"O God, come to my assisstance."


VOX DEI (Latin for "The Voice Of God")

In a word I heard the voice of God. Not as the word itself but the silence in between its' syllables. In the nothingness, between its' sounds, I felt the limitless expanse of all eternity. This moment of rest that also held the beat of the Sacred Heart, kept within it the inhale and exhale of the entire living cosmos. A peace, unimaginable before this moment, enveloped me and helped me see that I was an element of all time and space; inseparable from all creation. My fear of death and loneliness washed away in the gentle ebb and rip of the tides that now carried me along my destiny. All forms of conflict within me were transmuted from their heavy solidity to a wistful, airy form and the breath of creation blew them away. Riding blissful along the breeze I was borne unto a flawless mirror; soft, warm and slightly giving under my feet. I slowly looked down to my distorted visage and was infinitely amused at its' surreal appearance. Kneeling over and reaching to touch the reflected fabric of my nature the surface broke as water would, rippling out into infinity and returning from some unseen shore. The ever expanding rings of ether swallowed my attention whole and at once I saw the vast and immeasurable domain that laid before me: the place where miracles are born; where Space reaches infinity; where Man and Woman are One; where it became evident that all matter is part and parcel of the Whole. The divine interdependence of all things shone through like a shimmering and indestructible web, woven by a skillful and loving hand. God Him/Herself closed Its' eyes and drifted off to a peaceful repose as I learned of purpose and intent. Unable to see the mirror from which I was reborn, I soon realized that there was, in essence, no mirror and no 'me' to perceive it. What has always been and what will always be replaced the hollow core of what 'I' had been. The ripples that It made now swelled into waves carrying the echoes of love, truth and compassion in the form of words, bringing with them the voice of God.

REY