01-11-2012, 08:35 AM
Congrats! I have only ever written poems and short stories, I can't keep a cohesive idea going for long enough to make a book.
01-11-2012, 09:27 AM
Good for you, man! That's awesome.
01-11-2012, 01:24 PM
Luckily my job gives me a lot of time to think.
Originally Posted by namelesswonder
Thanks dude. It sure is.
Originally Posted by Bane
01-14-2012, 05:10 AM
This is awesome. Read it.
'Your excuses are cancer to my ears. Leave me be. Take your weak mind somewhere else.'
Last edited by Primal Fist; 01-14-2012 at 05:15 AM.
01-15-2012, 08:27 AM
So I've put away my first draft for three months before I revisit it to read it through and do the second draft work; in the meantime I've already started something else. Keep the ball rolling...
01-18-2012, 11:54 AM
Let's bring in a little bit of culture for a change. My favourite poet in my uni days (and still now, probably) was Philip Larkin, and this is one of his best poems. It's certainly morbid and perhaps moribund, as with much of his work, but it's still pretty damn fabulous.
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
01-19-2012, 07:53 AM
01-25-2012, 05:48 AM
01-26-2012, 08:30 AM
I've never seen sorrow better evoked in art than with this picture (first panel). I guess having followed the story might help, but you don't have time for that.
01-26-2012, 10:43 PM
So I've got a youtube channel now (I'm so hip!). It'll have my lifting sesh videos on it, for anyone who isn't bored to cancer at the thought of such a thing.