Member-only story
Elegies at Dawn
Searching for Salvation with a Simple Pencil
In this land where language painted the scenery, I was the last bard, a lone figure on the shores armed with a quill dipped in shadowed ink. The villagers watched as I pirouetted upon parchment, my every movement a desperate attempt to resuscitate dying narratives. Each performance felt like an elegy sung on the precipice of a final breath.
The twilight descent marked the retreat to my chamber, as dimly lit as my dwindling hope. A cigarette ignited, its embers mirroring the spark of uncertainty within. These were the hours of solitude, of self-examination. “What meaning do I hold?” I would question the silent walls that bore witness to my crumbling determination. Their mute response was the loudest echo.
As nightfall deepened, so did my introspection, drawing me into the labyrinth of my psyche, a city lost to the sands of time. Amongst the ruins of forgotten epochs lay the words I had misplaced. Once vibrant and meaningful, they now existed as specters haunting the halls of a language long abandoned.
I recalled their former radiance, how they gleamed with promise. But now, much like a path scarred by relentless tides, they felt depleted, exhausted. Every written word felt like a crack in my facade, the echoes of truths and lies told, each widening the fissure.
