mumbled_truth: (Default)
The darkness is all that you can register; there's no depth of field to the space you've found yourself in, no clear sense of direction. You can move freely, no restraints in place, but it's impossible to tell if you're actually getting anywhere. If you reach out, you won't feel anything; the only surface seems to be the ground beneath your feet.

There's no sound other than those you produce, either, at first.

After several long minutes, a stern voice cuts through the darkness.

"What are you doing?"

It belongs to an adult male who sounds angry, impatient; he knows that your answer can't be worthwhile. There's no sense of where he is, though - it easily could have been inside your head.

If you call back to answer, you'll find yourself unable to speak. Shout all you like, you can feel your throat working, but no sound will come out.

Wherever that first voice came from, a second one speaks up, but it's not addressing you. This is a woman, calm and quieter; she doesn't sound angry, rather sad and disappointed.

"He'll just never amount to as much as Jeffrey."

The male voice answers, still irritated, but at least it isn't directed at you.

"He could at least try to make something worthwhile of himself."

And then it is, back upon you even more intensity than at first.

"Don't you ever have anything to say for yourself?"

Try to find your voice again, if you like; it still won't answer. Whatever direction you've turned in, there is suddenly a dim light behind you. If you turn towards it, you will find a low, round wooden table with a lamp on it. Beneath the lamp sits a dog-eared notebook, a pen resting across its slightly curled cover.

You may or may not notice the figure sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the table, knees folded up and arms wrapped around them. Beyond the light on the floor, but just before the shadows recede into pitch black, it's not impossible to make out, but isn't obvious either. You won't feel eyes upon you; they're focused on the ground.


[ooc: Posting from work, tags will be when I get home. Anyone is welcome to jump in, all threads will be considered separate iterations of the dream unless otherwise desired by any involved parties. And yes, your characters can speak now if they'd be inclined to try. <3]
mumbled_truth: (Beat it)
[It's a windy autumn night - crisp, but it's too early in the year for the biting cold of winter to have begun to set in. You're in an unnamed small city in 1950's America. The pavement is reflecting back the light from the streetlights; it's wet, making it apparent that its rained recently, though it isn't now. The block is spotted with a few period-appropriate cars, their curves outlined in the dim light. Most of the buildings look rather nondescript; bland, dark, businesses that have closed for the evening. On one side of the street is a bright spot; it's a small club, advertising beverage and food accompanied by entertainment. And on their sign for the evening is advertised a poetry reading by the rising young literary star, Todd Anderson.

If you choose to enter the club, you'll find the room seems to be packed at first glance; if you decide to stay, however, you will find that there is an available table to be found. It's dim, the candles on each table providing most of the light in the room, though there is a small spotlight on the modest stage. In the focus of that light is a young man, dressed modestly in a black turtleneck and jeans. There's been a stool provided, but he's not using it at the moment, instead standing next to it. His gaze is focused on a point off in the distance; he's not dwelling on the audience, not out of fear but rather out of confidence. If you've met Todd, in his waking state, this may seem very unlike him. If you really know Todd, however, you'll see that he's just managed, in this dream, to shed the shell that he spends most of his life in. He is reciting, quite animatedly, the following poem;]


Looking, watching;
Never seeing
Thinking, speaking;
Never feeling
Saying, dreaming;
Never doing
Our lives pass by
But are we living?

We plan, we think, we look ahead,
We reminisce and look behind.
We pray, and dream, we fear and dread,
But for now? We just can't find the time.



[As he finishes his reading, his gaze lowers, falling onto the audience with an appreciative smile.]



[ooc: SOB. Okay, so the sad secret is, when I decided to app Todd, I was really looking forward to writing poetry for him. Now that I've actually gotten to do it, I hope I don't suck as badly at it as I think I do. XD

Anyway, this is open to everyone! Spam away bbz.]

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Todd Anderson

January 2012

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