Apparently my general apathy kept me from posting this years ago when I first scribed it. But to my nonexistent readers, here it is:
I feel like a necromancer, or a vampire, or a liche. A life of forced solitude, surrounded by nothing but ghosts. Ghosts of past loves, ghosts of past lives, of the joys that can no longer be attained, of the pure a delightful things of this world that flee madly from my presence, allowing only slight glimpses or passing caresses before withering at my touch to become another ghost in my entourage. It leaves me longing for the zombies, those hideous mindless things of the world, because at least they have substance.
I feel like a necromancer, or a vampire, or a liche. A life of forced solitude, surrounded by nothing but ghosts. Ghosts of past loves, ghosts of past lives, of the joys that can no longer be attained, of the pure a delightful things of this world that flee madly from my presence, allowing only slight glimpses or passing caresses before withering at my touch to become another ghost in my entourage. It leaves me longing for the zombies, those hideous mindless things of the world, because at least they have substance.
Unfortunately these monstrosities can only mimic what I want and need, and which will drive me ever onward toward those things I destroy. The endless dance of immortality. If only I can attain that immortality so that the hellish masquerade doesn't consume me. At least I won't have to fear the unknown once I get there.
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