Snow falling and night falling, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it—it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less—
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
-"Desert Places" Robert Frost
It has been a handful of months since I have visited Neopia, coming back for my love. The winter snow has fallen and melted, and it is spring, the imminent season for lovers, for the birds to soar into the air and fly radiantly, displaying flashy colors. I, too, have felt the urge deep within me to return to my love, to try once again, although I know the outcome already. But the time will come when I will, and perhaps be victorious in my quest of freeing her and dashing through the universe with her in my arms. Ah, such sweet fantasies.
And now here I stand, lost in the blankness of space, while simultaneously searching the blankness of my soul. Excuse my handwriting; I can barely hold the pen—it is shaking far too much from the memories that have taken places in these past pages. I am grateful for the reader having gone so far into this tale. Perhaps you are scoffing now, not believing a single word I have written. Very well. You are entitled to your close- mindedness, just as I am entitled to confess the truth here.
I am thinking that you may not believe a word that I have written. It is too bad for you—I am far too spent to try and find you and convince you that it is truth. Besides, you would probably run from me anyhow.
Now, you, the reader, have two options: you may swallow the falsehood that has been adopted by nearly every Neopian, fed from a silver spoon by a press that is so ignorant to the facts that they actually believe the lies that they spin. You may continue to enjoy the games of Splat-A-Sloth, in which you smash a poor rendition of my face with a sledgehammer. (I would prefer you wouldn't.) Your second option is to accept that, yes, there can be good in evil, evil in good—and every creature that can think knows the difference between right and wrong, whether they choose to follow the 'right' or the 'wrong.' You can accept the fact that no human or otherwise sentient being can have a totally blackened soul, can be totally emotionless—even your human dictators, your Hitlers and binLadens, and your mystic people who seemed full of only good, Jesus Christ and Gandhi, are feeling people, created by whatever God you choose to believe in, and are capable of sin yet at the same time capable of prayer and redemption. They are one and all of you—they represent the darker side, perhaps, but inevitably, everyone comes in shades of gray.
I, myself, have only discovered this recently, coming upon this revelation quite slowly, but quite surely. I can no longer deny myself and melt into a super villain, a criminal without a cause, who only lives to conquer. I can love, and I do love, and I can hate, and I do hate. The bitterness and cold of Satan runs in my blood, yet coexists with the burning goodness of God. I am a faerie, immortal, yet different, embodying the human spirit, the spirit of all who can think, learn, feel and react consciously.
I do not believe I can write anymore. My soul has been drained—perhaps I am experiencing true apathy as I sit at this table, wondering why I couldn't have word-processed this. Maybe I will, later, if I decide to send other documents of the truth throughout the universe. But this is highly unlikely as I see it.
And finally, I leave the reader with these last words. You are in charge now of an important delivery. If you are able to do so, please travel to Neopia and give these words to the Space Faerie, if you can find her, in any way that you can, delivered from the heart of Frank Sloth:
I love you, my only. Wait for me.
-Dr. Frank Sloth
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it—it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less—
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
-"Desert Places" Robert Frost
It has been a handful of months since I have visited Neopia, coming back for my love. The winter snow has fallen and melted, and it is spring, the imminent season for lovers, for the birds to soar into the air and fly radiantly, displaying flashy colors. I, too, have felt the urge deep within me to return to my love, to try once again, although I know the outcome already. But the time will come when I will, and perhaps be victorious in my quest of freeing her and dashing through the universe with her in my arms. Ah, such sweet fantasies.
And now here I stand, lost in the blankness of space, while simultaneously searching the blankness of my soul. Excuse my handwriting; I can barely hold the pen—it is shaking far too much from the memories that have taken places in these past pages. I am grateful for the reader having gone so far into this tale. Perhaps you are scoffing now, not believing a single word I have written. Very well. You are entitled to your close- mindedness, just as I am entitled to confess the truth here.
I am thinking that you may not believe a word that I have written. It is too bad for you—I am far too spent to try and find you and convince you that it is truth. Besides, you would probably run from me anyhow.
Now, you, the reader, have two options: you may swallow the falsehood that has been adopted by nearly every Neopian, fed from a silver spoon by a press that is so ignorant to the facts that they actually believe the lies that they spin. You may continue to enjoy the games of Splat-A-Sloth, in which you smash a poor rendition of my face with a sledgehammer. (I would prefer you wouldn't.) Your second option is to accept that, yes, there can be good in evil, evil in good—and every creature that can think knows the difference between right and wrong, whether they choose to follow the 'right' or the 'wrong.' You can accept the fact that no human or otherwise sentient being can have a totally blackened soul, can be totally emotionless—even your human dictators, your Hitlers and binLadens, and your mystic people who seemed full of only good, Jesus Christ and Gandhi, are feeling people, created by whatever God you choose to believe in, and are capable of sin yet at the same time capable of prayer and redemption. They are one and all of you—they represent the darker side, perhaps, but inevitably, everyone comes in shades of gray.
I, myself, have only discovered this recently, coming upon this revelation quite slowly, but quite surely. I can no longer deny myself and melt into a super villain, a criminal without a cause, who only lives to conquer. I can love, and I do love, and I can hate, and I do hate. The bitterness and cold of Satan runs in my blood, yet coexists with the burning goodness of God. I am a faerie, immortal, yet different, embodying the human spirit, the spirit of all who can think, learn, feel and react consciously.
I do not believe I can write anymore. My soul has been drained—perhaps I am experiencing true apathy as I sit at this table, wondering why I couldn't have word-processed this. Maybe I will, later, if I decide to send other documents of the truth throughout the universe. But this is highly unlikely as I see it.
And finally, I leave the reader with these last words. You are in charge now of an important delivery. If you are able to do so, please travel to Neopia and give these words to the Space Faerie, if you can find her, in any way that you can, delivered from the heart of Frank Sloth:
I love you, my only. Wait for me.
-Dr. Frank Sloth