Arthur (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
paradoxlol) wrote2011-04-28 10:11 am
paradoxlol) wrote2011-04-28 10:11 am
Goodbye, Sanity~
Have you known such a savoury grief as I?
Do people say "Strange fellow!," whom you meet?
— My amorous soul, when I was due to die,
Felt longing mixed with horror; pain seemed sweet.
Anguish and ardent hope (no factious whim)
Were mixed: and as the sands of life ran low
My torture grew delicious yet more grim,
And of this dear old world would not let go.
[There's a long pause in the text, then he switches to voice.]
It's Baudelaire. I can't remember the rest. I just wanted to share, because... because I woke up, and it was like when you get a song stuck in your head. An idea that replays over and over again, and you try to get it out, but you can't. [He lets out a soft snort at the thought. NOT THAT ANYBODY WOULD KNOW, but Arthur's tone sounds more like his normal, pre-Invasion self.]
The thing about an idea is... If it isn't yours, you can always trace it back to its genesis. Your mind-- your mind is-- it's this incredible tool; it retains so much more than you can even comprehend. Some speculate that you never really forget anything-- you may not recall something, but it's still there, locked inside your head. You can't, you can't make a person believe in a lie forever, not if you don't go deep enough. [He laughs hollowly] Any memory can be retrieved.
Anything...
[Murmuring:] It's on the tip of my tongue.
[He lets out a soft sigh and begins to recite, his voice going flat:]
J'étais comme l'enfant avide du spectacle,
Haïssant le rideau comme on hait un obstacle...
Enfin la vérité froide se révéla:
J'étais mort sans surprise, et la terrible aurore
M'enveloppait. — Eh quoi! n'est-ce donc que cela?
La toile était levée et j'attendais encore.
That's it. That's what I was forgetting.
[OOC: CUE ARTHUR GOING CRAZY. Or beginning to. He knows something's wrong; he knows that he should be able to check that this is reality, but the whole concept of a totem is basically gone, so he's left in a daze. IF I'M FEELING INTELLIGENT ENOUGH, his comments will become more and more surreal, but if I'm not, he'll just be in a weird malaise. By tonight/tomorrow, he'll start trying to "kick" his canonmates and himself. With a gun. The poem is "The Dream of a Curious Man", and I'm using the second translation here. OH AND: Arthur's on the deck right now, staring down at the "sea" of stars, so that's where you can find him.]
Do people say "Strange fellow!," whom you meet?
— My amorous soul, when I was due to die,
Felt longing mixed with horror; pain seemed sweet.
Anguish and ardent hope (no factious whim)
Were mixed: and as the sands of life ran low
My torture grew delicious yet more grim,
And of this dear old world would not let go.
[There's a long pause in the text, then he switches to voice.]
It's Baudelaire. I can't remember the rest. I just wanted to share, because... because I woke up, and it was like when you get a song stuck in your head. An idea that replays over and over again, and you try to get it out, but you can't. [He lets out a soft snort at the thought. NOT THAT ANYBODY WOULD KNOW, but Arthur's tone sounds more like his normal, pre-Invasion self.]
The thing about an idea is... If it isn't yours, you can always trace it back to its genesis. Your mind-- your mind is-- it's this incredible tool; it retains so much more than you can even comprehend. Some speculate that you never really forget anything-- you may not recall something, but it's still there, locked inside your head. You can't, you can't make a person believe in a lie forever, not if you don't go deep enough. [He laughs hollowly] Any memory can be retrieved.
Anything...
[Murmuring:] It's on the tip of my tongue.
[He lets out a soft sigh and begins to recite, his voice going flat:]
J'étais comme l'enfant avide du spectacle,
Haïssant le rideau comme on hait un obstacle...
Enfin la vérité froide se révéla:
J'étais mort sans surprise, et la terrible aurore
M'enveloppait. — Eh quoi! n'est-ce donc que cela?
La toile était levée et j'attendais encore.
That's it. That's what I was forgetting.
[OOC: CUE ARTHUR GOING CRAZY. Or beginning to. He knows something's wrong; he knows that he should be able to check that this is reality, but the whole concept of a totem is basically gone, so he's left in a daze. IF I'M FEELING INTELLIGENT ENOUGH, his comments will become more and more surreal, but if I'm not, he'll just be in a weird malaise. By tonight/tomorrow, he'll start trying to "kick" his canonmates and himself. With a gun. The poem is "The Dream of a Curious Man", and I'm using the second translation here. OH AND: Arthur's on the deck right now, staring down at the "sea" of stars, so that's where you can find him.]
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