He wonders at his isolation, awaiting some other who can understand. Self-pity disgusts him; exposes his most vulnerable areas.
Every little bit of writing, of singing, makes him feel better. Sometimes, it is better to be unknowing; to be apart in a crowd. What Izzy would like, very much, is to be loved; not just loved lightly, but loved for his faults and imperfections. Like anyone, his emotions sometimes get the better of him; his sensitivities, tuned-up, too high.
[To be continued...]
`x~Abe's Heart.
May 9, 2010
May 5, 2010
Character Study: Izzy B~~[Part Two]
Izzy knew he was an outsider; however, he feared being viewed as such. If he had to go out into the world, it was always alone. He knew, also, that everyone was alone, fearing, maybe just as he. Maybe, being lonely was his fate:
For Izzy B., the days seemed too long, and the nights too quiet; his solitude, if he wasn't careful, became oppressive; his room, stifling.
One day, he'd be able to tell his story. But, for now, in the silence of his room, Izzy couldn't get the words out,---frustrated, he throws the parchment across the room, tipping it, into the wastepaper basket---the very act of writing, of communicating, his feelings, as such, becoming muted in their tones, like stoic soldiers, marching on, marching on.
[To be Continued...]
`x~Abe's Heart.
May 5, 2010.
For Izzy B., the days seemed too long, and the nights too quiet; his solitude, if he wasn't careful, became oppressive; his room, stifling.
One day, he'd be able to tell his story. But, for now, in the silence of his room, Izzy couldn't get the words out,---frustrated, he throws the parchment across the room, tipping it, into the wastepaper basket---the very act of writing, of communicating, his feelings, as such, becoming muted in their tones, like stoic soldiers, marching on, marching on.
[To be Continued...]
`x~Abe's Heart.
May 5, 2010.
May 2, 2010
Character Study: Izzy B.~~PART ONE
At Fifty-One, Izzy B. could still see himself as the embodiment of a tabula-raza; his mind, one of a Rabbi or Monk, with his books. He craved quiet and solitude; restful moments, unbound, bringing all noise to heel.
Daily, his father's radio spewed rants, offending Izzy's ears. When Izzy found some quiet, he embraced it, and read his books, and wrote poetry, and stamped his words in stone.
(He, Izzy B., thought to himself: What's in a name? He still did not know himself; and if he didn't know himself he was lost; just biding the clock, one day into the next, without rhyme or reason.)
And so, he goes on, living the life of a contemplative, as if each word were a final testament; a last gasp, strung from the heart.
(to be continued...)
`x~Abe's Heart.
Daily, his father's radio spewed rants, offending Izzy's ears. When Izzy found some quiet, he embraced it, and read his books, and wrote poetry, and stamped his words in stone.
(He, Izzy B., thought to himself: What's in a name? He still did not know himself; and if he didn't know himself he was lost; just biding the clock, one day into the next, without rhyme or reason.)
And so, he goes on, living the life of a contemplative, as if each word were a final testament; a last gasp, strung from the heart.
(to be continued...)
`x~Abe's Heart.
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