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    Sit next to me here, on the proverbial bench.


    Posts : 12
    Join date : 2012-05-30

    Sit next to me here, on the proverbial bench. Empty Sit next to me here, on the proverbial bench.

    Post by Fyodor on Mon Jun 04, 2012 3:44 pm

    This was a little part of a character history I wrote. It doesn't hold any real value other than some philosophical wording, but I've been told by a few that it was really good, so I'll share it here.


    le Comedia ha finite.

    And so we finally sit ourselves down at the proverbial bench. Take off those shoes and step into mine, take off those glasses and see through my eyes. Yes, it seems that fate has finally come to me, so now I must finish my research the way I had intended. There is so much more to learn, I wish I could have been around just a tad longer. I am so close - but it seems maybe I am the truth behind it all. To be the gatherer of death, and now as the city falls, to have it come to my doorstep. Yes, I believe acceptance is the only necessary measure to take here. I have left my door unlocked - why make destiny wait? That blade coming for my fair flesh. The taste of coming death is intoxicating - I dare say that it is not from the fine mead produced by the citizens of this city. No, my tolerance has quite leveled - it would take a brewery to sweep me off of this pedestal.

    I have come to my final moments, for now after all my years of collecting the end, I am finally faced with it. Perhaps it is not that I have stopped my quest to continue gathering the end, it is that the final end I must gather is my own. Yes, it's not so much that I must accept defeat, but rather I must make it meaningful in what ways I can. What are my values? Like all those people, surely I need a purpose as well. Perhaps I do not need one, but I do not necessarily want one either. No, I simply must create one to carry on my legacy. The history books may be burned - the brains of the citizens scattered among the gravel - but time cannot be erased. Even if the world does not remember me, I will still have made my mark. I am here physically for the taking, but they will not capture my essence. No, I am something quite immortal. But that makes me feel like a narcissist, and I don't love myself that much to be a self-proclaimed immortal. No, I shall finish my legacy with something that is beyond life.

    These words, I find it silly. Writing on parchment because I know that a voice is but a whisper in this world of wind. With every gust and gale a story disappears, but with this crimson ink it may last forever. Copied and retold, preserved. I already hear the screaming of these people, what have they left? I have already captured so many in my journal - to know the words of a dying man. I faced death with values and meaning. My study to know what man truly considers important. So far, his family, himself, his goals, his failures, his successes. It's all a different story depending on who is dying in my arms. I gave them a chance at lasting just a while longer than they did before, and I am glad that they accepted my makeshift salvation.

    Now I must face the reality. I have come to accept the many disorders that have plagued me in my lifetime, I thought that at some point they would have prevented me from enjoying the world. But no, in fact, they have made me see it ever clearer. I have seen the darkness in blinding light, and the blinding light behind a lens that shuts out the lies. I have succeeded in my temporary presence, and I know that I have at least one person that will thank me for it. To think I would pass on these genes - just one more monster in this world. But no, not a monster, a philosopher. A seer, a man who will find even more meaning than I in the death that will soon surround him. This war is such a joke, this life is such a joke. But it is not the joke that makes the comedy - it is the comedy that makes the joke. And with a comedian, you control the comedy - the comedy is a life, and the life is a story that is shaped depending on the persons actions in their life. So in truth, we are all just a joke - and I suppose I should be laughing. That seems to be a suitable expression for this very situation. I think I'll take it to heart.

    Well, look at me rambling. It seems I have wasted what moments I had left in my lifetime, my presence, my fading. I wonder if there really was a gate in the sky, because I've sent one too many people to it. I wonder if they accept my research in their fantasy. I wonder if they can see the good I have brought to this world. But I highly doubt it, as my good was brought as selfish actions with selfless intentions. But it is not intentions that ultimately decide where you go in the end, no, it is the actions those intentions shaped.

    We will all die a fading memory. No hero, no legend, no story, no god will surpass the test of time. For who will carry on the tale when nobody is left to tell it?

    Would you look at that, the door is breaking. I suppose it is time I delivered this journal to my wife, she is waiting on the ship. This pen, and my sword - le Comedia. May it end these bad jokes one more time before it reaches a resting place. A hibernation before another proper use. Oh, and my pocketwatch. Yes, my son will take value in it I'm sure.

    I was going to save it for myself, but I know that no matter how hard I try I cannot live forever. These sands will take me in their desperate hold.

    il mio comedia ha finite.
    Tempesta Tranquilla

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