flisk, elisabet (unplaceable) wrote in liberatifatali, @ 2009-08-10 20:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | elisabet, felicia |
WHO: Elisabet Flisk & Felicia Yolest
WHAT: Unleashing
WHERE: Dorm F1
WHEN: Early evening of this post
RATING: Because it's Felicia, R is safest :D
STATUS: Ongoing
Elisabet brought the dress to her nose and sniffed it. She did not smell anything particularly unpleasant on it, so she decided she could still wear it to sleep, for the third night.
She squeezed a very modest amount of toothpaste on her toothbrush, like how she pours a very stingy amount of shampoo on her hand. After she brushed her teeth and left the bathroom, she returned to it again to check if she closed the lights, she did. So she walked to her room on her slippers, a pair that she has been wearing since she was still a lass in Pinebarrow (it was never easy finding her shoe size). Elisabet sat by her bed, opened the night lamp (tried not to glance at the neglected package next to it) and picked up her latest book acquisition: A collection of Esthar poems. As much as even the cloistered Elisabet wanted to explore the "mythical" utopia that was Esthar, the fear of flying, walking on transparent glass bridges, and the sight of gigantic spires and massive towers kept her in the Garden walls, limiting her experience of the city to the pages of poetry such as that one she've read by H.A. Wuden.
Stagger onward rejoicing;
And even then if, perhaps
Having actually got
To the last col, you collapse
With all Esthar shining
Below you yet you cannot
Descend, you should still be proud
Even to have been allowed
Just to peep at Esthar
In a poetic vision:
Give thanks and lie down in peace,
Having seen your salvation.
Nothing leaves her blissful and content than a good poem. To Elisabet it was sufficient to acquaint a place through an ideal. After all, the world in reality was a dangerous and ghastly place, that much she knew to be true. Only poetry could save it and unleash its true beauty.
She closed the book and her eyebrows furrowed at a streak of white along the spine. Blinking, Elisabet's finger wiped it out and brought it near to her nose. Toothpaste foam. Elisabet sighed and scolded herself for forgetting to wash it off her wrist, again. It was a good thing it did not touch the pages...
OOC: Poem is an excerpt from W.H.Auden's "Atlantis", with 2 word changes.