The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of the Origin (4|4)

(№4.4)

In the end, she would have probably destroyed herself, as she began living alone near the river, eating what she could find on sparse days of self-reflection where her bare fingers felt like severed stumps of gore and maimed flesh, not visiting her dozens of sisters and brothers, rid of the parents who astonishingly passed at their irritably young age just like most of them back then, regarded as a slaughter of the plague and nothing more. In reality, they had died of a broken heart, for the head of their army of children wandered now the corrupted paths of hell, of demons tempting and they died howling, intentional to the fact there was nothing they could ever do to have their beautiful daughter, princess back, contained from the banks of madness no one could ever be retrieved sound and hale.

An idea robbed her of quality and forsake her of her loved ones.

But on the other end, every time she'd play, there was this nervous, tingly feeling inside of her that was filled with joy and gratitude for each day in her life she was able to play her little pieces in peace, let the pressure be released for the lit hours, until her misery would overwhelm her in the night and the game continued on, the vicious cycle a vice she enjoyed only half-heartedly.

After all, it was with a lot of things we do in life; What brings us pain and suffering might give us the equal measure of joy and happiness, even if it finishes us off in the end. Though that's not important to us, the bad, the negative, the advantages are rather more observed and treasured than the unwanted, horrific horrors.

The only thing you have to be careful of, is if your contentment is worth your suffering and that of others and the fixated necessity of attempting to only return your well-meaning.

Mostly children sometimes gathered around there, the place ripped in time and space, down the river and enjoyed the girl's playing, the tales along the way, being bewitched by flames and warmth and smoke and notes, lovely music basically out of another dimension. They were innocent, inculpable. They could hear the magic living in it, canalised through her reborn, enchanted figure seemingly that of a muse, an angel, a witch, protecting their village, while their guardians, parents were too old, too cut out, weathered down, outworn by existing themselves to put much thought in that and too caught up with their own problems to care or even listen.

Understand the hidden message, magnified in a dream, simply mesmerising.

But once they irreparably went through the line of growing up, they never returned, so the girl long sauntered over the threshold of becoming an adult also clang desperately to her naïve youth and halting the loss of her own magic, cluttering down as hard and fixed as capable, serenaded none now save herself. Broken as predicted, the path of no one but her own dismantling pretension.

Her death would spare others certainly, her obsession wearing her down day and day more, to the verge of death even. Perhaps this manuscript would have never needed noting down, engraved with comprehension and muttered mercy, the cries of thousands and thousands of people, if it had just never come to this, as it did.

Whilst no one on the earthly globe bothered themselves onto what she was up to these days much, there was ever the more significant an entire world tugged away out of everyone's sight, fueled by naught than fervent credence, a whole hidden audience had the means and the ability to listen to her violent shudders of help sought in her music and so one of the gods decided to listen to her playing much too frequent and swallowed perhaps some of this outbursting, everlasting enthusiasm literally radiating off that stubborn redhead, in theory delving further than he should have.

One of the third generation of gods born, much brought forth like mortals, hidden in grass, descended from actual heaven, solely several yards away spent entire afternoons, nights, mornings and forenoons, only listening to her successes and her important failures, setbacks which she always came past, that after all claimed her virgin nympholepsy.