Chapter Thirty One: The Literature of the Past
There was a time when all was good. All was well. Everything is perfect. Literature has touched the hearts of many, and it feels good to be alive. It was long ago, and it was far too distant for now.
Who would have thought of these dangerous rhetoric? Who could have penned such a tragedy without any glimpse of hope? Why have someone romanticized suffering so much that they have blinded the reader? Where are they, the source of all imminent danger?
There it was, a book containing the literature of the past. A curious past, indeed, where thoughts are gathered, provoked, and used. A book containing the good, a glimpse of evil, and the desire for creativity, where influence has been recorded as it was cradled in time. It was a book of horror.
There, many creatures abound. Good or bad. As it passes from hand to hand, time after time, it began to develop even more. A record of sorrows and triumph. A record of hope.
But then. Evil has found its way to the later minds, infecting them with a fatal desire of control. They have sought a perilous road, a long and winding one. They have chosen the path to death.
They are coming, says the poem. It is the way, says the prose. Nobody should have penned these dangerous rhetoric, and now we are left with the Three Tales of Old.
The past will begin to haunt us. It will remind us of evil, and old desires. It will force us to do things we don't understand.
x----x
Picture from Pexels.
Who would have thought of these dangerous rhetoric? Who could have penned such a tragedy without any glimpse of hope? Why have someone romanticized suffering so much that they have blinded the reader? Where are they, the source of all imminent danger?
There it was, a book containing the literature of the past. A curious past, indeed, where thoughts are gathered, provoked, and used. A book containing the good, a glimpse of evil, and the desire for creativity, where influence has been recorded as it was cradled in time. It was a book of horror.
There, many creatures abound. Good or bad. As it passes from hand to hand, time after time, it began to develop even more. A record of sorrows and triumph. A record of hope.
But then. Evil has found its way to the later minds, infecting them with a fatal desire of control. They have sought a perilous road, a long and winding one. They have chosen the path to death.
They are coming, says the poem. It is the way, says the prose. Nobody should have penned these dangerous rhetoric, and now we are left with the Three Tales of Old.
The past will begin to haunt us. It will remind us of evil, and old desires. It will force us to do things we don't understand.
x----x
Picture from Pexels.
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