Leave me a drabble of backstory. It can be about anyone -- one of your characters, one of mine, someone else's, no-one's. Anyone. Then I'll write one for you.
We're really meant to be king, you know. But I don't want to. You think it's strange, having something like that sprung on you. He's so confused. Who am I? Its head is spinning; she doesn't know. You wish you did. We wish we knew exactly who we were, all the time, and exactly what we were doing. There are people like that. People who know, always. Wouldn't it be nice to be like that? Wouldn't it be safe? Iyouhesheitweyouthey think it would be and wish and now that's who I am you are he/she/it is we are you are they are. I think, therefore we am.
It is a promise, a curse, an opening to a place inside him where all others are closed up securely. It is a place where he can put things that he saw, or that he wishes for, and turn himself into them instantly. He can decide what his stars are to tell him, what cards turn up in his game of life, and what his handwriting looks like, making things up as he goes along. He knows a freedom inaccessible to all those rather despicable little people caught up forever in their own little lives. He remakes himself from moment to moment for those that wait for him to do so.
Just turn yourself into anything you think that you could ever be.
Anything he can ever think is his to turn into, and everything he had ever thought, or seen, or heard, or touched is his to remember, to call up as a perfect replica in his mind. The feeble creatures around him that rely on writing down things and then forget where they'd put the paper are so much beneath his contempt, he can't even imagine what such weakness must feel like. How can they listen to him reciting all those breath-takingly beautiful lines and then, in the very next moment, it is all wiped from their minds by an unknown force as inexorable as the tide that erases the letters scrawled into the wet sand with a stick? He had learned early on that everybody except him was like that, and it was rather impolite to call them stupid for it. His mother had been rather firm about not calling others stupid. And as he could turn himself into anything he thought he could ever by, he turned himself into a slightly more patient and rather more polite person. But the contempt stays on, buried deeply underneath, supplying a running commentary to his life.
Be free with your tempo, be free be free!
Still, despite all contempt for those sedentary and forgetful creatures shackled to their land, their homes, their loves, he has always been very free with his time and attention to all of them, extemporising whatever he needs to get what he wanted before he moves on. "We live from their applause", his father always reminded him. "From the pennies they spare us", his mother corrected. We live from their attention, and their admiration is owed to us - the rest is just tokens of that, he himself knows, but doesn't say, as it wouldn't be a very polite thing to say. So he bends himself to their expectations, and in turn draws their expectations into himself to make them do his bidding, to pander to his every whim, to read his wishes from his eyes as they deeply enjoy every minute they are allowed to be subservient to him, to emerge as from a daze or glamour after he moves on with what he wants. Rare are those irritating individuals that seem somehow immune to his gifts. He avoids those as best he can.
Surrender your ego - be free, be free to yourself!
What ego, though?
Oh, egotism he is accused of often, by those contemptible creatures that simply can't live with how brilliant he is; even of being egocentric. But if some shy shadow attracted to his light gets up their courage and looks into his eyes and asks, "Who are you really, beautiful one, deep down inside when you're all alone?" he always feels a bit at a loss.
I am this sensation, that wish, those lines of immortal text. I am my father's son, and never mind who my father really is. I am reticent and private and don't answer your questions. You are nosy, you hurt me, go away.
And with a polite and deeply enchanting smile, he tells another lie that isn't a lie, really, as there is no truth for it to mask. Just an empty centre.
Erm. Huh. That is entirely possible. But then, you characters were never for many words, and I most definitely am. Plus, I know him rather well and have much to say about him...
That said, I will have absolutely no problem whatsoever at all about seeing more again of either of them!! But then, the plot line you started with freeformchick is very, very promising already.
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yakalskovich) wrote2004-09-13 05:42 am
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no subject
wish
and now
that's who
I am
you are
he/she/it is
we are
you are
they are.
I think, therefore we am.
Three Gifts And One Question
It is a promise, a curse, an opening to a place inside him where all others are closed up securely. It is a place where he can put things that he saw, or that he wishes for, and turn himself into them instantly. He can decide what his stars are to tell him, what cards turn up in his game of life, and what his handwriting looks like, making things up as he goes along. He knows a freedom inaccessible to all those rather despicable little people caught up forever in their own little lives. He remakes himself from moment to moment for those that wait for him to do so.
Just turn yourself into anything you think that you could ever be.
Anything he can ever think is his to turn into, and everything he had ever thought, or seen, or heard, or touched is his to remember, to call up as a perfect replica in his mind. The feeble creatures around him that rely on writing down things and then forget where they'd put the paper are so much beneath his contempt, he can't even imagine what such weakness must feel like. How can they listen to him reciting all those breath-takingly beautiful lines and then, in the very next moment, it is all wiped from their minds by an unknown force as inexorable as the tide that erases the letters scrawled into the wet sand with a stick? He had learned early on that everybody except him was like that, and it was rather impolite to call them stupid for it. His mother had been rather firm about not calling others stupid. And as he could turn himself into anything he thought he could ever by, he turned himself into a slightly more patient and rather more polite person. But the contempt stays on, buried deeply underneath, supplying a running commentary to his life.
Be free with your tempo, be free be free!
Still, despite all contempt for those sedentary and forgetful creatures shackled to their land, their homes, their loves, he has always been very free with his time and attention to all of them, extemporising whatever he needs to get what he wanted before he moves on. "We live from their applause", his father always reminded him. "From the pennies they spare us", his mother corrected. We live from their attention, and their admiration is owed to us - the rest is just tokens of that, he himself knows, but doesn't say, as it wouldn't be a very polite thing to say. So he bends himself to their expectations, and in turn draws their expectations into himself to make them do his bidding, to pander to his every whim, to read his wishes from his eyes as they deeply enjoy every minute they are allowed to be subservient to him, to emerge as from a daze or glamour after he moves on with what he wants. Rare are those irritating individuals that seem somehow immune to his gifts. He avoids those as best he can.
Surrender your ego - be free, be free to yourself!
What ego, though?
Oh, egotism he is accused of often, by those contemptible creatures that simply can't live with how brilliant he is; even of being egocentric. But if some shy shadow attracted to his light gets up their courage and looks into his eyes and asks, "Who are you really, beautiful one, deep down inside when you're all alone?" he always feels a bit at a loss.
I am this sensation, that wish, those lines of immortal text. I am my father's son, and never mind who my father really is. I am reticent and private and don't answer your questions. You are nosy, you hurt me, go away.
And with a polite and deeply enchanting smile, he tells another lie that isn't a lie, really, as there is no truth for it to mask. Just an empty centre.
no subject
no subject
That said, I will have absolutely no problem whatsoever at all about seeing more again of either of them!! But then, the plot line you started with
I like those Southern hemisphere people...