The Tale of Tamas LinThe Tale of Tamas Lin by Darkness-Melody
He met her in the winter
When the wind whipped through the trees,
Beneath the snowfall and the starlight,
Un'ner the shadow of the leaves.
A fair and regal maiden
With hair as black as night,
Pale skin of glowing moonbeams,
And eyes of sapphires bright.
She found him there in winter
Amid the rocks and snow.
His booted leg was twisted;
The brigands struck the blow.
She held him then and kissed him
And nursed his wounds so dire,
And stole him to the fairy court
Beyond the Ross’ shire.
Three days he dined in excess,
Three days he drunk the wine,
Three days he danced with beauties
In courtly green attire.
Yet long were the mornings,
Longer still the nights,
For by the Yuletide’s dawning
Ten years had made their flight.
Aggrieved was dear Seonaidh,
His breast grew ill and tight,
For those that dine with fairy folk
Can ne’er leave their sight.
Twelve years, he passed, then twenty
As servant, then as swain,
But best he served the company
And knighthood did attain.
Current Residence: The Universe|
Favourite genre of music: Rock, classical
Favourite style of art: Writing, music, sketching...it's all so good.
MP3 player of choice: Ipod Video
Favourite cartoon character: Sesshoumaru
Personal Quote: "It is not time that lasts, but the moments we make."
It is strange re-reading the words I have written. The diary entries, the posts, the little notes, and the sprawling prose─they all seem as though something apart. Like the dreams and memories of another being so far removed from my current self that I cannot recognize them. Yet it is truth even if it is no longer true. The persons I had been exist yet in me, foundations for the person I have become.
But it is strange, reading my words as though a stranger, savoring the slow thrum of words that seem more poetry than prose, more artifice than the sincerest musings of the heart. I suppose it is the bane of an artist, a writer most specifically, to fall so deeply into the spell of words that everything unfolds in such eerie perfection.
Or perhaps it is simply the love of the language or a keener sense of hearing─an awareness of the music that hangs between the words. Because there is music. There are lyrical symphonies that rise to decadent crescendos as each word calls to another, all begging for an inevitable conclusion. Even now as I write the words call, beckoning sweetly to the next, the thrum and the run, the rise and the lilt, creating a song all of its own.
But there are many songs and many stories told between the lines of their compositions. There are worlds held between the pauses of one word to the next, silences filled with infinite possibilities. It is beautiful, sometimes repugnantly so, the many types of music inherent in speech and writing. From the southern drawl to broken slang and the sweet, softness of lightly accented words, there is a distinct beauty to it even in its harshness─world within the word of what is written.
But I digress…
I surprise myself with my words. I fall into their spell, my lips making gentle love to the sweetness of the sound and the completeness of the composition as I sound out the syllables so carefully. It is beautiful, if foreign to the me that is so wrapped in the “must-dos” and “do nots” of the everyday. For the creature that reads is another beast with its own vocabulary and its own music.
Such a strange dichotomy. I wonder, do we all speak so differently to ourselves than we do towards others? Do we, when we write, so often express the purity of our souls, unfettered by the constraints of expectations? Do we all speak a new song that lies only in our hearts?