original pantheon beginning
Jan. 26th, 2016 01:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticitythis was the original start to pantheon, where instead of of starting in the solid and moving into this metaphysical shit, we start metaphysical. it did not at all mesh with the second half of the story and a real beginning bookended the real ending too well.
If he could only reach his pen and paper right now. He must preserve this feeling. He must write about it. He needs to be able to recall it in crystal clear memory. He needs to invent a device to preserve the sensations he is feeling. He needs to remember, forever, this moment that he has reached. He would want to reach for this, when he was feeling down. he would want to be able to inhale a bit of it, like fine tobacco. He would want to be drunk on it like whiskey.
His pulse is racing like a stallion at full gallop. It is like they are mid-battle, with bullets and cannons everywhere, with the slash of steel around him and the sounds of agony. The rush of surge of it seems so similar, despite this ultimate silence that encompasses him. It is like they are somewhere else - somewhere distant, somewhere where there is nothing. They are in their own universe
There is fear. But it is fear of an unimaginably wonderful future. Fear that this will become too intense, and too fantastic, and he will not be able to comprehend it. Fear he will not make it to that future, because he is weak, because he does not have control, because he will not be able to resist. Fear that he is not man enough to reach some marvelous result.
More than anything, there is the blazing and overwhelming heat of arousal. This is not some dalliance with a woman he will never see again. This is not some prostitute with no face. This is not some logistical detail, because he cannot sleep. This not some task to avoid boredom. This is the overpowering sense that should always accompany sex. This is dizzying, confusing him, making it difficult to think past his body. The arousal surges within him like a wave. It floods through him, pulsing in the beat of his heart, soaring in his blood like an ocean breeze. He can feel it in the tips of his fingers, in the crown of his forehead, in the heels of his feet.
If he could only reach his pen and paper right now. He must preserve this feeling. He must write about it. He needs to be able to recall it in crystal clear memory. He needs to invent a device to preserve the sensations he is feeling. He needs to remember, forever, this moment that he has reached. He would want to reach for this, when he was feeling down. he would want to be able to inhale a bit of it, like fine tobacco. He would want to be drunk on it like whiskey.
His pulse is racing like a stallion at full gallop. It is like they are mid-battle, with bullets and cannons everywhere, with the slash of steel around him and the sounds of agony. The rush of surge of it seems so similar, despite this ultimate silence that encompasses him. It is like they are somewhere else - somewhere distant, somewhere where there is nothing. They are in their own universe
There is fear. But it is fear of an unimaginably wonderful future. Fear that this will become too intense, and too fantastic, and he will not be able to comprehend it. Fear he will not make it to that future, because he is weak, because he does not have control, because he will not be able to resist. Fear that he is not man enough to reach some marvelous result.
More than anything, there is the blazing and overwhelming heat of arousal. This is not some dalliance with a woman he will never see again. This is not some prostitute with no face. This is not some logistical detail, because he cannot sleep. This not some task to avoid boredom. This is the overpowering sense that should always accompany sex. This is dizzying, confusing him, making it difficult to think past his body. The arousal surges within him like a wave. It floods through him, pulsing in the beat of his heart, soaring in his blood like an ocean breeze. He can feel it in the tips of his fingers, in the crown of his forehead, in the heels of his feet.