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King Canute (standard:romance, 490 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Oct 17 2006Views/Reads: 1937/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A reverie....what else from a story teller?
 



My songs are letters to the world; I remember telling you that. They
speak of how I feel, tell my dreams, and express my love to the world. 
But first those words must flow through my veins, they must say 
something beautiful, something that makes one want to dance, to think, 
to dream, to re-live past love, or to find the courage to look at love 
again. 

Can you fly with me; can you sit on the wings of my mind, understand
what happens when it begins to soar? It has cost me friends, family 
loves, for even there I could find no understanding. How I face the 
most formidable forms of reality, yet none that lowered my banner of 
hope. 

We live in a wicked world a lot of the time, we live with people who
have been kicked in the head, believe all they read in Sunday 
newspapers. Not me, I sit on a sidewalk in Paris, drink coffee and 
watch the world pass knowing nothing of me. It is truly a release to 
know that in my songs, as in my life, I have the freedom to move from 
scary place to one where I can reconcile happenings and to understand 
them. I will always be what I write; be made happy, sad, be made rich 
or poor because I am just what the words say, and no longer feel the 
ambition to prove otherwise. 

My God, life is a tricky and interesting business, the best I can hope
for is burning candles, peat logs on the fire, and friends who'll love 
me for everything. Do you know what I mean? Do you begin to see me with 
your eyes closed? Can you sense the pleasure of living with a man 
thought stupid, but wise as King Canute? 

How I wish with all my heart that bringing you back into my life were a
simple matter of slaying a dragon or stopping a windmill with my bare 
hands. Sadly the world has lost its dragons and windmills too few, so I 
spend my hours thinking about the trees above the shoreline and that 
feeling of you walking with me. 

I hurt like hell, very badly; tears come without notice, catching me in
the middle of some other thought. Thinking how beautiful the cliffs 
look against the coastline and how many waves never met your ankles, 
and how many streams never knew your reflection? I love you; I cannot 
imagine my life without you so I don't try. I think more about the 
punched out notes of unheard songs; yet to be written and those, for 
now anyway, keep you within an inch of my heart. 

When I sit down at this word-processor all I have to do is breathe and
from that breathing comes life. I have no grand ideas that I'm a good 
writer, let alone chase the idea of greatness; I am a storyteller, 
simply. 


   


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