03-19-2021, 04:55 AM
(Edited 03-19-2021, 04:55 AM by harland m..)
[align=center][div style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11.5px; width: 340px; text-align: justify; line-height:120%"]Had he been informed on the matter of how each present bore a connection to one another his intrusion may not have occurred, beyond his understanding the ties, each fine strand an enigma. The fault his own, an inability to seek the information that was rather simple to obtain proven a hindrance, proven faulty his reasoning for not doing so numerous times over. Different the time during which his childhood had occurred, understood and expected change. Yet, to comprehend something as a fact and come to view it with acceptance acted as two differing points, a beginning and end he was caught in the middle of.
Was he not a fragment of it now, caught upon the fringes, one who had acted as a final piece of a diminished family caught in the undertow, distant but present his own connection to those present. Possibly, though the thought fit poorly, distant by choice.
As it was he bore no such knowledge, tedious and beyond him the distsngling of that which he found himself among, his curiosity unhindered in a budding desire to satiate it. Well accustomed had Harland grown to the various stretches of sand that ringed the archipelago, often drawn to them, though, in particular, his preference to the less populated easily learnt of. Different this day, it seemed, the constant sound of the waves overlaid with conversation, simple in nature, unhurried as assessed the creation carved into golden grains. This unobserved from the distance between, further fuelled his wish to decipher the cause for such assembly, slow the shift of attention.
Affinity for particular avenues of creation was held by the bombay, the feeling of his work coming together with each step offering a satisfaction little else gave him, though lacking a talent with such mediums. Painting beyond him, any sketching a messy scrawl rejected before completion, that which he looked upon with slightly widened eyes never even thought upon. That could not diminish the wonder the clean lines elicited, about edges moving, looked across at different angles the careful depiction.
"How did you keep it so neat…" Lips moved only slightly, words a dull murmur, all too easily determined thoughtless his remark. Attention diverting, art replaced by the artists, voice rising as best he was capable. "Your work is wonderful, to think sand is good for something." As he spoke once more his volume decreased, the secondary part of his remark nearly inaudible, largely a thought spoken aloud than something for any other.
Was he not a fragment of it now, caught upon the fringes, one who had acted as a final piece of a diminished family caught in the undertow, distant but present his own connection to those present. Possibly, though the thought fit poorly, distant by choice.
As it was he bore no such knowledge, tedious and beyond him the distsngling of that which he found himself among, his curiosity unhindered in a budding desire to satiate it. Well accustomed had Harland grown to the various stretches of sand that ringed the archipelago, often drawn to them, though, in particular, his preference to the less populated easily learnt of. Different this day, it seemed, the constant sound of the waves overlaid with conversation, simple in nature, unhurried as assessed the creation carved into golden grains. This unobserved from the distance between, further fuelled his wish to decipher the cause for such assembly, slow the shift of attention.
Affinity for particular avenues of creation was held by the bombay, the feeling of his work coming together with each step offering a satisfaction little else gave him, though lacking a talent with such mediums. Painting beyond him, any sketching a messy scrawl rejected before completion, that which he looked upon with slightly widened eyes never even thought upon. That could not diminish the wonder the clean lines elicited, about edges moving, looked across at different angles the careful depiction.
"How did you keep it so neat…" Lips moved only slightly, words a dull murmur, all too easily determined thoughtless his remark. Attention diverting, art replaced by the artists, voice rising as best he was capable. "Your work is wonderful, to think sand is good for something." As he spoke once more his volume decreased, the secondary part of his remark nearly inaudible, largely a thought spoken aloud than something for any other.