Post by Lestat II on Sept 9, 2007 20:59:58 GMT 1
To say I was bored would have not only been a drastic understatement, but it would have been unnecessarily repetitive. For instance, if you were out hunting in the woods and you were to stop a fellow hunter and point at a yellow-eyed, glistening-fanged, half-starved, half-crazed, growling, snarling, bristling pack of eight wolves and say matter-of-factly, "Look, monsieur, wolves", your fellow hunter would experience the same sort of numbing essentiality which I would feel were I to casually state with a dramatic flick of my hand that I was bored.
Well this would simply not do. I can't stand not moving. Were I to have a portrait painted of myself I think I would turn it over daily, lay it on its side, stand it on its head, anything to keep it from being still. It is this place, really, that gets to me, the dullness of it all, the cationic stillness. To walk around Auvergne and wait for something exciting to happen would be like watching a dead man's chest and waiting for it to rise or staring at a pyre where supposed witches were burned at the stake and waiting for the screaming to stop.
And so, I made my own excitement. One night in the bed of a young woman, the next in the jaws of the woods, and the next in a traveling actors' tent. But...none of these elegant plans ever work out as they should. The young woman, for example, could lead to being chased out mere moments too soon like a dog by a red-faced father. The woods can lead to harsh and cruel words in the family...if you can still call it that. The actors' tent...well...that will give you a firm reprimanding (the real weight of the punishment usually laying in how well my father's aim is that night). Nevertheless, all of it, I need it, I crave it, for without it...well...I would most certainly and without a doubt perish. You don't love me, fine, spite me, but do it well, do it hard, man your fist with a stubborn heart and just remember this: Once, in a town called Auvergne, there was a young man, a young man with all the passion in the world who was kept, trapped, corked, like wine in a bottle...until he escaped, that is, until he left this godforsaken town and every godforsaken god-fearing man and woman in it...but they would remember him, they all would, if maybe for the stains in their bed or the blood in the snow or the black reputation. Because he was the one who got out...escaped...yes, he was the one...
In my coat made out of death and victory I sat at the barstool and nursed my half-filled bottle of wine (half-filled, not because I'm particularly overwhelmingly optimistic, but simply because every drop left was a drop worth counting, and therein laid the wine-lovers unspoken rule). Outside winter was approaching and but in here it was warm, even if the warmth resided only in the burning of my throat and chest. To hell with it. I needed to be warmer. I scanned the bar with a hunter's eyes for another’s' touch. I wanted a fight. A battle of wits or passions. Anything, everything. This night was much too slow. I needed to speed things up.
Well this would simply not do. I can't stand not moving. Were I to have a portrait painted of myself I think I would turn it over daily, lay it on its side, stand it on its head, anything to keep it from being still. It is this place, really, that gets to me, the dullness of it all, the cationic stillness. To walk around Auvergne and wait for something exciting to happen would be like watching a dead man's chest and waiting for it to rise or staring at a pyre where supposed witches were burned at the stake and waiting for the screaming to stop.
And so, I made my own excitement. One night in the bed of a young woman, the next in the jaws of the woods, and the next in a traveling actors' tent. But...none of these elegant plans ever work out as they should. The young woman, for example, could lead to being chased out mere moments too soon like a dog by a red-faced father. The woods can lead to harsh and cruel words in the family...if you can still call it that. The actors' tent...well...that will give you a firm reprimanding (the real weight of the punishment usually laying in how well my father's aim is that night). Nevertheless, all of it, I need it, I crave it, for without it...well...I would most certainly and without a doubt perish. You don't love me, fine, spite me, but do it well, do it hard, man your fist with a stubborn heart and just remember this: Once, in a town called Auvergne, there was a young man, a young man with all the passion in the world who was kept, trapped, corked, like wine in a bottle...until he escaped, that is, until he left this godforsaken town and every godforsaken god-fearing man and woman in it...but they would remember him, they all would, if maybe for the stains in their bed or the blood in the snow or the black reputation. Because he was the one who got out...escaped...yes, he was the one...
In my coat made out of death and victory I sat at the barstool and nursed my half-filled bottle of wine (half-filled, not because I'm particularly overwhelmingly optimistic, but simply because every drop left was a drop worth counting, and therein laid the wine-lovers unspoken rule). Outside winter was approaching and but in here it was warm, even if the warmth resided only in the burning of my throat and chest. To hell with it. I needed to be warmer. I scanned the bar with a hunter's eyes for another’s' touch. I wanted a fight. A battle of wits or passions. Anything, everything. This night was much too slow. I needed to speed things up.