Post by downfall347 on Sept 21, 2008 16:09:36 GMT -5
Did you know that insanity can dance?
That it can speak and move and need and love?
Did you know that it is real, that to a tragic few insanity is as tangible as the earth itself.
Did you know of the Harlequin?
A title given to a clown, to a jester, and more importantly, to those who dwelled in the real of sanity's twilight. A fading perception in which anything was possible, and the horrible shadows in the mind come to hunt. A Harlequin is not a happy creature, and behind its smiles, behind the jokes and laugh, lies a madness so profound it can never be spoken of. The Harlequin envies Prometheus, Judas, and Caesar, for its punishment is much harsher.
A black wolf was walking, the stiff chill of the mountain air filling her lungs in deep, slow breaths. She licked her lips as if to help warm them, she snow of the mountains peak crunching beneath her feet. Her breath fogged before her as she stopped, looking down at the valleys of that land. She could smell a great many things on the wind, the birds, the trees, the wolves. She smiled, for she had been away from her own kind for oh so long. She longed for their contact, for the sight of a pup, the howl of a pack.
She started down the mountain, as did her followers. A shadow at first, a small head peeking at her as she descended from around a rock. A mouse followed her, its legs that of a spider, then a rabbit with the horns of a bull. A parade, a horrible entourage of the nightmarish creations of a broken mind. They followed her, as real as the bitter cold, as real as the trees, as the black wolf herself. Behind them all, these hundreds of monsters, this procession of abominations walked the bear. He was always the special one after all, the key to the broken. He watched his friends, and beyond them the black wolf, where his eyes should be there only swam maggots.
She looked back, just for a moment. She saw them, and they looked at her. Some were hunting her, she knew this, and some were following her, she knew this as well. She couldn't decide, exactly which of the two groups she feared worse. They were real, they were her reality, her hell, her private joke. They flickered as she looked at them, fading into nothing more than shadows, fading into dust. She turned away and kept walking, and they followed.
A black wolf, Harlequin be her name walked down a mountain, a piece of hell in tow. In the snow, only her tracks remained.
That it can speak and move and need and love?
Did you know that it is real, that to a tragic few insanity is as tangible as the earth itself.
Did you know of the Harlequin?
A title given to a clown, to a jester, and more importantly, to those who dwelled in the real of sanity's twilight. A fading perception in which anything was possible, and the horrible shadows in the mind come to hunt. A Harlequin is not a happy creature, and behind its smiles, behind the jokes and laugh, lies a madness so profound it can never be spoken of. The Harlequin envies Prometheus, Judas, and Caesar, for its punishment is much harsher.
A black wolf was walking, the stiff chill of the mountain air filling her lungs in deep, slow breaths. She licked her lips as if to help warm them, she snow of the mountains peak crunching beneath her feet. Her breath fogged before her as she stopped, looking down at the valleys of that land. She could smell a great many things on the wind, the birds, the trees, the wolves. She smiled, for she had been away from her own kind for oh so long. She longed for their contact, for the sight of a pup, the howl of a pack.
She started down the mountain, as did her followers. A shadow at first, a small head peeking at her as she descended from around a rock. A mouse followed her, its legs that of a spider, then a rabbit with the horns of a bull. A parade, a horrible entourage of the nightmarish creations of a broken mind. They followed her, as real as the bitter cold, as real as the trees, as the black wolf herself. Behind them all, these hundreds of monsters, this procession of abominations walked the bear. He was always the special one after all, the key to the broken. He watched his friends, and beyond them the black wolf, where his eyes should be there only swam maggots.
She looked back, just for a moment. She saw them, and they looked at her. Some were hunting her, she knew this, and some were following her, she knew this as well. She couldn't decide, exactly which of the two groups she feared worse. They were real, they were her reality, her hell, her private joke. They flickered as she looked at them, fading into nothing more than shadows, fading into dust. She turned away and kept walking, and they followed.
A black wolf, Harlequin be her name walked down a mountain, a piece of hell in tow. In the snow, only her tracks remained.