buildingbeautiful
New member
I never write stories, usually just poetry. But, I'm making an attempt at writing an entire novel, yanno cross it off my bucket list. Anyway, it's obviously not finished at all, but I figured I'd ask.
The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the twilight skies. A saturation of lilac and coral, with specks of deep blue piercing through.
I had always loved the sunset, much more than any sunrise I’d ever seen.
Sunrises were cliché, anyway. Somewhere along the way, some asshole had decided to use his metaphorical genius to create a parallel between the sun rising and the feeling of freshness and renewal, giving people false hope of forgiveness. What he neglected to realize was the fact the sun has always risen, continues to do so, and it’s no miracle anymore. It just kills me that you have to attach a meaning to something so natural and standard. To what? Make yourself feel better about yesterday, or the days before? No sunrise will ever wipe clean the errors of yesterday, nor will it pierce through the cloud of indecision and regret that is formed by the past. The past is forever looming and hovering above you, resting on your shoulders until the sweet serenity of death. Death, and only death will clear your pallet, or erase the impoverished days of your youth.
When night falls, it’s then that I come alive. I would anticipate the sun’s departure from our faces as it gallantly drifted farther and farther away, finally allowing the moon to proudly take stance in the nighttime air. The gentle glow of the moon turns madness into beauty. It hushes entire cities into silence, and cradles us into sleep. It camouflages flaws and reflects them in obscurity. Night is the only time to think without interruption. The only hints of waking life radiate from tiny jet planes crawling through the atmosphere, or from a couple of lonely cars traveling on shivering roads.
Full moons graced the skies all too scarcely, like a hidden treasure, or a graceful secret only woken once a month. The ghastly cascades would nearly break my heart from the sheer recognition of their beauty. The moon’s alabaster rays bathed me, drenched me in the waters of inspiration and knowledge. I guess that’s why I ended up here, reclined in the driver’s seat, at quarter past four. I would always drive up here for the familiar, welcoming presence of the blue sky fading into darkness as it crept through the naked pines. But, last night I came to gawk at the ambient melody of a full moon. I really didn’t mean to sleep at all, not to mention this long, but I didn’t have much to do anyway.
Driving takes up most of my time, if not all of it. I spend my days twisting my way down mountains, and weaving in and out of winding roads.
No biggie, Kate. It does sound a bit pretentious as I read it over, but I had no intention of such. I'm trying to develop the character as a cynic, which is why it probably gives off that vibe.
The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the twilight skies. A saturation of lilac and coral, with specks of deep blue piercing through.
I had always loved the sunset, much more than any sunrise I’d ever seen.
Sunrises were cliché, anyway. Somewhere along the way, some asshole had decided to use his metaphorical genius to create a parallel between the sun rising and the feeling of freshness and renewal, giving people false hope of forgiveness. What he neglected to realize was the fact the sun has always risen, continues to do so, and it’s no miracle anymore. It just kills me that you have to attach a meaning to something so natural and standard. To what? Make yourself feel better about yesterday, or the days before? No sunrise will ever wipe clean the errors of yesterday, nor will it pierce through the cloud of indecision and regret that is formed by the past. The past is forever looming and hovering above you, resting on your shoulders until the sweet serenity of death. Death, and only death will clear your pallet, or erase the impoverished days of your youth.
When night falls, it’s then that I come alive. I would anticipate the sun’s departure from our faces as it gallantly drifted farther and farther away, finally allowing the moon to proudly take stance in the nighttime air. The gentle glow of the moon turns madness into beauty. It hushes entire cities into silence, and cradles us into sleep. It camouflages flaws and reflects them in obscurity. Night is the only time to think without interruption. The only hints of waking life radiate from tiny jet planes crawling through the atmosphere, or from a couple of lonely cars traveling on shivering roads.
Full moons graced the skies all too scarcely, like a hidden treasure, or a graceful secret only woken once a month. The ghastly cascades would nearly break my heart from the sheer recognition of their beauty. The moon’s alabaster rays bathed me, drenched me in the waters of inspiration and knowledge. I guess that’s why I ended up here, reclined in the driver’s seat, at quarter past four. I would always drive up here for the familiar, welcoming presence of the blue sky fading into darkness as it crept through the naked pines. But, last night I came to gawk at the ambient melody of a full moon. I really didn’t mean to sleep at all, not to mention this long, but I didn’t have much to do anyway.
Driving takes up most of my time, if not all of it. I spend my days twisting my way down mountains, and weaving in and out of winding roads.
No biggie, Kate. It does sound a bit pretentious as I read it over, but I had no intention of such. I'm trying to develop the character as a cynic, which is why it probably gives off that vibe.