An Unnamed One-shot

“Acting was her life”, she said as she looked into the field not turning to him, “and now she found another.”

A young man in his twenty’s was watching her—conversing with her. He said, “She couldn’t have found another life! That would be too silly!” In his gentleman manner, he said it precariously.

“Silly, as you call it, it is not.” retorted Victoria Valor—a splendid young thing that punctuated beauty as she is the new beginning of it, with her raven hair and jubilant ayes of olive that went with full lips in a petite petal of a face and a dainty body which was, outstanding to know, as strong as an ox. Victoria could have any man. Any man at all. She was of nobility and had genius implanted on her mind but never in it because of fear that it will drain out her beauty. She knew of genius but never attempted to be one—she couldn’t face it alone and she admitted it to the man she was with one afternoon while talking about an actress on a balcony in Bauldelaire Manor.

“When an actress acts, she indulges in her story, in the stage life. She never turns to the world because her only calling is the stage. The only thing real is your act—nothing can be greater.”

Then a sordid look of indignation and joy struck her face with melancholy as an after effect. The young man by the name of Tristan Chale Golbert stepped closer with the offer, “You don’t have to explain.”

“I refuse to refuse my genius not be in me and instead of just knowing genius of others.” the lady voiced. Then—“LOVE! Oh, love is such a folly that life cannot do without and ever be with! It makes us real to reality and sense our senses but releases us of our care. CARE! Care for the stage is what the actress denounced! Her life is for her lover and never more to the stage, once her life. CARE! Of another care, there is selfishness—To think on one’s own, never to be at one with another, taking in all of life’s beauty and to be enthralled alone. But is there really a beau without love?”

With that she looked at the 20-year-old man beside her and asked with tenacious and intrepid sparkling eyes, “Are you such a man that can do that to an actress?”

He paused. Walked over to the refined lady and said, “I don’t believe so.”

She turned away. Victoria Valor said all she had got to keep her vile personality at bay. She hated herself for procrastinating as every proper lady did. And, this, for her, was vile.

“The world is forgotten on stage—“, she continued, “the actors and actresses, the audience melt away with the scenery. The world is sinful and cannot face itself as well as its people cannot face the world in frank. But—“

“In Love, there’s life… and I love you.” Lord Tristan Chale confessed.

Victoria’s voice resided in her echoing her powerful words but when the words of words slipped from the young man’s lips, she, like the world, melted into the scene proper and asked, “Would you like to propose to me?” The man stood in shock before the new thing that sprouted like a laburnum in front of him—he wasn’t attracted to her beauty but to her beau like soul, intelligence and love. She was born anew; not more than the ladies of London, she was not.

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Insanely me ;)

A Dream Within a Dream: My Writing Style

A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?


-- THE END --


for Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes. And Barbara with infinite love as I falter on the road to Ithaka

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That's a very inspiring poem by Edgar Allan Poe. He's my favorite writer and poet. I sink well into his thoughts that prelude into darkness of night, of sin, of soulless regard. An epithet of all brooding statures of life, in life--I share his burden. You should see his biography. The man was an alcoholic, and lost his wife to drugs. All the dark phantoms of the universe were conspiring against him in a massive scale. His madness blinded him to the very end. Made him, him...

But I regard him mad but genuinely true. Mad but a genius. Mad but with a reason.

For me, the man's a genius. Up 'till tomorrow, he'll be an inspiration, to say the least. I use a writing style just like his if a fiction would require elements like in his works.

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There is also another very intriguing writer called Oscar Wilde. He wrote 'The Picture of Dorian Gray". A very mystifying story of aestheticism, a bridge between hedonism and sadism, to cause pain in the name of beauty. I like the writing style because it borders the edges of sinful tastes and luxurious beauty conspired together into a beautiful mirage of the world. Hahahahaha! I sound like the dude already!

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I honored them my first post because they're two of the artists that contributed to my style.

They are two whom I never met.

There is also two people that influence my writing aura that lived with me for many years, and continue to participate greatly in improving my world and my writing. My grandma and my mum. They mean the world to me, as I to them. They inspire me the most and are named the subjects of my ideas, emotions, well-being. They are the 'main support of my life'. Without them, I couldn't exist as I am.

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Insanely me ;)