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On the cusp of creation, in the fens of an off shore cow grazing land, lived a boy of moderate talent. His voice somewhat recognizable for its size and skill, and that mark of contagious smiles he seemed to carry. But all was not well, for on the off shore land in the fens so rich with weeds of putrefaction, there lived a cloud of isolation between him and the mainlanders. It opened once every day, for an eight hour period letting the passage of men and women from their small shanties to the mainland, so that they could proceed to earn a living, as not to starve, and to continue their fervency of procuring land and raising their children. So in all fairness, while the boy did leave the fens now and then, he really found little time to be social with those he had known to be fun. Simply because, the cloud would let little pass, not messages, not personages, not even thoughts or mentions too. It seemed to just rage on and on, continuing to lock out all manners of jovialness brought about by human cohabitation. There wasn’t a night when the young boy didn’t wish to be just taken away by the storm and washed up onto the mainland, so as to be further in the close company of a friend or two.
But, ironic as it was, he seemed only to be pushed further out. For you see the young lad was forced into the towers of ivory. His shanty had been taken up by the great dread lord of the fens, claiming them to have “owed more than their lives worth in gold and silver” for the tiny seaside shack that held little light, and creaked and moaned in the night. It was a scandalous affair; one yet paid for by the lords that lied with darkness of dread laden in their teeth and tongue. But never the less it would seem that this little one was now further out from those he held dear in his mind’s eyes. Washed out further to the isles of white rock, to live high in the ivory tower, labeled with a simple number, like a prison cell, with only softer graces inside; the cloud grew to massive proportions and formed a squall in the oceans depts. Wiping away the fens from their ruddy position in the mud. It was here that our small protagonist found another he had known from the mainland, a soft girl, of heated temperament, who seemed to make him much lonelier, when faced with her lack of caring in his life, and only the pursuit of her own. So he sat in, day through day, wondering of what purpose he could truly serve, so displaced from the graces of the elated ones. It seemed almost pointless at times to care, but his educators surely wouldn’t be happy with a loss in appetite, so with morose and somberness he continued his daily trudge through the cloud for the now extended nine hour window of opportunity.
Soon everything thing seemed lost in its mundane routine of depressive trudging from class to class, swooning over unattainable objects, and people, of souls, and hearts, of smiles never to be had, and inside jokes never to understand. Parties passed, and celebrations moved on, friends grew closer, but all the while the squall grew, thicker, and thicker and became a maelstrom. Swirling, making it a more difficult process to attempt to move into the mainland every day. And each hour passed like a hammer slowly pounding against a bell, wide and hung from a chain of woven rope. Mocking him slowly with every passing idea, or free flowing thought that seemed to laugh with an exchange of remembrance of something so lost to him, because he wasn’t a part of it; eventually he began to question the connections he thought were once so strong. A simple wave became a formidable question of faith, and a disgusted look became a declaration of utter hatred unrestricted by the moral boundaries of normal humans. The closer he was to people the further he seemed to feel. As if he had become the cloud of isolation himself, without becoming some form of condensation precipitated into a mass of tears, and fears, of doubts, and derisive actions; the simplest smile became a lie along his face, and laughing felt so forced, as if he might die were it to last longer than a moment, and become a lingering specter were it to go on for an hour.
Within days the raging maelstrom had stopped. Leaving something more scarring in its place, but easier to transverse; this ongoing storm had split the earth below the sea known as Subconscient creating a crag, hallow below, the void filled with water and left a desert of sand in its place, with floundering fish dying of exhaustion and lack of breath. The clouds remained but the rain of feeling never came again. Every hour passed still slower, and in the now newly named desert of Realisierung the young hero still wandered to the now far off mainland. Where fortune reigned over everything so joyous, not even the loss of the sea plagued them, they moved on without it, as if everything passed their shore was pointless. He even believed it, himself, his ivory tower; the fens long washed away, all of it pointless, stained with the lack of purpose so few things did afford in the world.
He longed to live there in on the mainland, knowing the things everyone else seemed to know of one another. But he had to remain, lost, behind the sea.