51 Ashan, 724
.
Try as he might, Kotton was never good with words. When it came to speaking to someone, he was a mess. He wasn’t a very social person to begin with and having to converse with just about anyone sent him spiralling into somewhat of a mild panic. It didn’t help with his lisp- talking had him stuttering over his words if he wasn't already trying his hardest to clam up. It just wasn’t in his blood to be a social butterfly. Although, when it came to writing, he was a gem at expressing himself. He even showed great detail with the description of his scenes.
Today, after getting up from a light slumber and after giving Imogen a light pat on the head, Kotton was determined to use his innate ability to write in order to create something new. He wanted to construct an imaginative and originative venture into the realm of explicitly documented verbiage.
Dressing into casual clothes- a multi-coloured vest and slacks to match- he had plans. He was going to head out into Scalvoris with the enterprise shown by a tourist who hadn't visited very many places. Every square foot of space he walked would be spent with an a additional minute or two of thought. And his thinking would meander into his notebook by the fantastical whim of his pencil.
If should go without saying that he was in the mood for something spontaneous. And, with a day off in what felt like forever, he was willing to go the extra kilometre to spike his creativity. For too long he had been stressed and overwhelmed with work, memories and the affront alcohol had on his desire to stay dry depleting his energy for doing anything outside of the norm. But he was ready to rest, take a break from everyday life, and arouse his inner child with immeasurable imagination.
Kotton grabbed what he needed- a coat, journal, and pencil- before slipping out the front door. His destination? A glassworker’s studio dubbed Gregorio’s Glassware. Kotton had walked by the establishment several times during his treks to work, but had never once stopped in to observe the craftsmanship.
Upon taking his first step into the establishment, he withdrew his journal and pencil. In the far corner was a decent enough spot to take in the architectural aesthetics and detailed merchandise.
Although, rather than simply documenting what he saw, he spent a good amount of effort using his senses to illustrate a vision akin to that of poetry.
‘The sun’s rays exhume all majesty within the walls
A local fellow would seek colour and happiness
A new understanding begins once he has entered
To the spoils of a hobby crafted from glass
The rays of brilliance cast off in varying directions
Offering perspective and opinion in a crafty sense
Artists are found here where passion blossoms
Fragile things can beget long-lasting enterprise.’
He had to erase a few mistakes before reviewing his rough draft. In the end he was only marginally confident that his writing was par. Whilst it made sense to him, if he were ever to publicise his work, he needed to make sure it made sense to everyone else.
But the time to be here was over. He set his sights on his next destination, coaxing his journal back into his deep coat pocket and heading out of the store.
Through the hypothetical gates into knowledge, Kotton strode past the doors that proclaimed ingenuity and innovation- the public library. Taking out his journal once again, he encouraged his writing utensil to create words that dared illuminate the glory of such place of vast intelligence.
’Life has many ravaging twists and exciting turns
When one needs prominent reassurance they come here
Information finds individuals in many ways
Like the moon finding the placement of the sun before him
Like the water finding refuge in meeting with the horizon
The same follows for the clouds amidst the heavenly sky
When questions arise amongst fiery minds
They come here in hopes of gaining answers.’
He was getting sloppy. He didn’t believe his sentences made any sense. Perhaps he could have the poems rhyme instead of merely describing the emotionally pertinent subjectivity that came from his observing eye? He was here for fun, though. This was not an assignment in any way, shape or form. But he still wanted to create art out of the otherwise ordinary tasks accomplished during a routine day of travel. With that in mind, Kotton was determined to create a poem that rhymed.
His work, the clinic, was the next location destined for him. It was a brilliant place to start and with his journal tucked under his arm, Kotton was already beginning to craft a stanza with heart. (Hey, that rhymed! He was already on a roll!)
The sole of his foot ascended the many stairs, reached the top, and passed the threshold through the front doors.
‘Stairs leading to unquestionable scenes
What is going on isn’t what it seems
People hard at work to save lives
No one here is someone who deprives.
Like any unlucky soul, there is death
But…’
…but Kotton's mind fell silent. There was nothing but silence, for no words came to him that rhymed with death. So far, in his most recent proses, he had gone with the first thing he thought of. He wasn’t too specific on the origin of the thought, but more on how it expressed itself. It was important to let your grasp on control resign itself and make way for emotional and illogical considerations, especially if your someone who relies on rational, reasonability and teh voices in your head that encourage any kind of overthinking.
He decided to go down the alphabet with potential rhyming partners: ‘beth, ceth, feth, geth, heth…”
There in place of another lull came an idea, one that diverted his ordered lettering back to the beginning of the alphabet. The letter B with the subsequent letter R was a simple word that could mean a million different things, but to Kotton, it meant the opposite of death. And it was breath.
’Like any unlucky soul there is death
But with many there’s more than final breath
A new start or final realisation
It’s the horrors that come with anticipation.
To some, this place is unfortunate or terrifying
But to others it is no more than clarifying
A place of healing and sensible care
Empathy is all there is to bear.’
Setting down his completed work, the poet couldn’t help but smile. He gave himself a mental pat on the back. That wasn’t too bad, he thought. Yet, having been empowered with an unnecessarily high level of pessimism, his elation was quickly dulled. He was only average. He was nothing but an amateur who did amateur things.
Just the same, another side of him couldn’t help but maintain his grin. Look at how much he had progressed! It was a piece of work he had created and it had been constructed using new formatting and even newer techniques! He hoped he could continue this streak with another location and one that offered something original, something that would keep his senses on their toes, so to speak.
Kotton suddenly found himself standing outside the Knight’s Rest Inn and Tavern. It wasn’t all that intricate in detail, but it held potential. In order to become more intimate with the venue, he found it was best to enter. As he did, he panned to the next blank page in his notebook, a physical action that also freshened his mind.
Within an instant, he found his hand writing down what he saw and the feelings that arose from the sight,
’Polished and clean, signs of new life
A warm embrace devoid of any strife
Weapons and various armour are restrained against the wall
A peaceful umbrage of dignity gives way to no brawl
The ceiling contrasts in beauty compared to that of the ground
The white and elegance formulating a taste for the enticingly profound
Doors lead in and out to mysterious rooms
The aroma of foods giving off delicious fumes.
Expense is independent, yet precariously given
The atmosphere playing a large role in such heaven
Majesty binds itself to the far reaches of the bar
An area of comfort comparable to a unique bazarr.’
Finishing the last line, Kotton was acquainted with a waitress who instinctively handed him a menu that listed multiple dishes far too expensive for him to dine on, specifically during the average day of the week. He wished he could allocate time and expenditure to simply feast on the flavour and give the flavour monster of his taste buds what they really wanted, but unfortunately he could not. He still had bills to pay, he still had a cat to feed, and he was still struggling to climb the latter in the medical field.
He declined before leaving the building. Once outside, he thought it was best to take a little break and review all he had written up to this point. Upon doing so, he caught sight of a few errors in his work and changed them promptly, crossing out the wrong choices of grammar and misspelt words. He even added a few periods, because sentences always needed to be ended with something.
Sure, he still had a few other locations he intended to visit, but other than writing poems all day, he didn’t have a clue as to what else to do to fill the remainder of his time.
Perhaps he could… no… perhaps he could also… no… or maybe… -these were the types of things that currently ran through his head like an electric voltage gifted from the lightning of an angry sky. There were incomplete sentences, one sided conversations and confusing propositions.
“How about I stick to wwiting poems and then figuwe out what to do once I’ve finished,” he declared to no one other than himself. With this in mind, he made his way toward his next destination and found great joy in the journey.
The Greystone Tea House.
Today, after getting up from a light slumber and after giving Imogen a light pat on the head, Kotton was determined to use his innate ability to write in order to create something new. He wanted to construct an imaginative and originative venture into the realm of explicitly documented verbiage.
Dressing into casual clothes- a multi-coloured vest and slacks to match- he had plans. He was going to head out into Scalvoris with the enterprise shown by a tourist who hadn't visited very many places. Every square foot of space he walked would be spent with an a additional minute or two of thought. And his thinking would meander into his notebook by the fantastical whim of his pencil.
If should go without saying that he was in the mood for something spontaneous. And, with a day off in what felt like forever, he was willing to go the extra kilometre to spike his creativity. For too long he had been stressed and overwhelmed with work, memories and the affront alcohol had on his desire to stay dry depleting his energy for doing anything outside of the norm. But he was ready to rest, take a break from everyday life, and arouse his inner child with immeasurable imagination.
Kotton grabbed what he needed- a coat, journal, and pencil- before slipping out the front door. His destination? A glassworker’s studio dubbed Gregorio’s Glassware. Kotton had walked by the establishment several times during his treks to work, but had never once stopped in to observe the craftsmanship.
Upon taking his first step into the establishment, he withdrew his journal and pencil. In the far corner was a decent enough spot to take in the architectural aesthetics and detailed merchandise.
Although, rather than simply documenting what he saw, he spent a good amount of effort using his senses to illustrate a vision akin to that of poetry.
‘The sun’s rays exhume all majesty within the walls
A local fellow would seek colour and happiness
A new understanding begins once he has entered
To the spoils of a hobby crafted from glass
The rays of brilliance cast off in varying directions
Offering perspective and opinion in a crafty sense
Artists are found here where passion blossoms
Fragile things can beget long-lasting enterprise.’
He had to erase a few mistakes before reviewing his rough draft. In the end he was only marginally confident that his writing was par. Whilst it made sense to him, if he were ever to publicise his work, he needed to make sure it made sense to everyone else.
But the time to be here was over. He set his sights on his next destination, coaxing his journal back into his deep coat pocket and heading out of the store.
Through the hypothetical gates into knowledge, Kotton strode past the doors that proclaimed ingenuity and innovation- the public library. Taking out his journal once again, he encouraged his writing utensil to create words that dared illuminate the glory of such place of vast intelligence.
’Life has many ravaging twists and exciting turns
When one needs prominent reassurance they come here
Information finds individuals in many ways
Like the moon finding the placement of the sun before him
Like the water finding refuge in meeting with the horizon
The same follows for the clouds amidst the heavenly sky
When questions arise amongst fiery minds
They come here in hopes of gaining answers.’
He was getting sloppy. He didn’t believe his sentences made any sense. Perhaps he could have the poems rhyme instead of merely describing the emotionally pertinent subjectivity that came from his observing eye? He was here for fun, though. This was not an assignment in any way, shape or form. But he still wanted to create art out of the otherwise ordinary tasks accomplished during a routine day of travel. With that in mind, Kotton was determined to create a poem that rhymed.
His work, the clinic, was the next location destined for him. It was a brilliant place to start and with his journal tucked under his arm, Kotton was already beginning to craft a stanza with heart. (Hey, that rhymed! He was already on a roll!)
The sole of his foot ascended the many stairs, reached the top, and passed the threshold through the front doors.
‘Stairs leading to unquestionable scenes
What is going on isn’t what it seems
People hard at work to save lives
No one here is someone who deprives.
Like any unlucky soul, there is death
But…’
…but Kotton's mind fell silent. There was nothing but silence, for no words came to him that rhymed with death. So far, in his most recent proses, he had gone with the first thing he thought of. He wasn’t too specific on the origin of the thought, but more on how it expressed itself. It was important to let your grasp on control resign itself and make way for emotional and illogical considerations, especially if your someone who relies on rational, reasonability and teh voices in your head that encourage any kind of overthinking.
He decided to go down the alphabet with potential rhyming partners: ‘beth, ceth, feth, geth, heth…”
There in place of another lull came an idea, one that diverted his ordered lettering back to the beginning of the alphabet. The letter B with the subsequent letter R was a simple word that could mean a million different things, but to Kotton, it meant the opposite of death. And it was breath.
’Like any unlucky soul there is death
But with many there’s more than final breath
A new start or final realisation
It’s the horrors that come with anticipation.
To some, this place is unfortunate or terrifying
But to others it is no more than clarifying
A place of healing and sensible care
Empathy is all there is to bear.’
Setting down his completed work, the poet couldn’t help but smile. He gave himself a mental pat on the back. That wasn’t too bad, he thought. Yet, having been empowered with an unnecessarily high level of pessimism, his elation was quickly dulled. He was only average. He was nothing but an amateur who did amateur things.
Just the same, another side of him couldn’t help but maintain his grin. Look at how much he had progressed! It was a piece of work he had created and it had been constructed using new formatting and even newer techniques! He hoped he could continue this streak with another location and one that offered something original, something that would keep his senses on their toes, so to speak.
Kotton suddenly found himself standing outside the Knight’s Rest Inn and Tavern. It wasn’t all that intricate in detail, but it held potential. In order to become more intimate with the venue, he found it was best to enter. As he did, he panned to the next blank page in his notebook, a physical action that also freshened his mind.
Within an instant, he found his hand writing down what he saw and the feelings that arose from the sight,
’Polished and clean, signs of new life
A warm embrace devoid of any strife
Weapons and various armour are restrained against the wall
A peaceful umbrage of dignity gives way to no brawl
The ceiling contrasts in beauty compared to that of the ground
The white and elegance formulating a taste for the enticingly profound
Doors lead in and out to mysterious rooms
The aroma of foods giving off delicious fumes.
Expense is independent, yet precariously given
The atmosphere playing a large role in such heaven
Majesty binds itself to the far reaches of the bar
An area of comfort comparable to a unique bazarr.’
Finishing the last line, Kotton was acquainted with a waitress who instinctively handed him a menu that listed multiple dishes far too expensive for him to dine on, specifically during the average day of the week. He wished he could allocate time and expenditure to simply feast on the flavour and give the flavour monster of his taste buds what they really wanted, but unfortunately he could not. He still had bills to pay, he still had a cat to feed, and he was still struggling to climb the latter in the medical field.
He declined before leaving the building. Once outside, he thought it was best to take a little break and review all he had written up to this point. Upon doing so, he caught sight of a few errors in his work and changed them promptly, crossing out the wrong choices of grammar and misspelt words. He even added a few periods, because sentences always needed to be ended with something.
Sure, he still had a few other locations he intended to visit, but other than writing poems all day, he didn’t have a clue as to what else to do to fill the remainder of his time.
Perhaps he could… no… perhaps he could also… no… or maybe… -these were the types of things that currently ran through his head like an electric voltage gifted from the lightning of an angry sky. There were incomplete sentences, one sided conversations and confusing propositions.
“How about I stick to wwiting poems and then figuwe out what to do once I’ve finished,” he declared to no one other than himself. With this in mind, he made his way toward his next destination and found great joy in the journey.
The Greystone Tea House.
