I'm just this guy, you know?
To expand on that, I am also the following...
- A former ficly member who is 34 years old and is schizoaffective (depressive type)
- Into creating languages and fantasy worlds from scratch
- A listener of audiobooks & good tunes
- Always too hard on myself
Marcy was dark. Not just dark, but a shade of black that was blacker than any shade of black that you could possibly dream up. She played bass guitar too. Well. Which was part of her charm. Part of the immense and dark charm that she had. She exuded it on a level that most people couldn't. It was just innately her and that was all there was to it.
I adored her as much as anyone could without incurring her wrath on the subject. She didn't care about being loved. All of her soul was in that bass guitar that she would strum at incessantly.
I mean, I knew she would always be close to me and a trusted friend in some regard but her bass was her first love by far.
She would strum out random songs and they would stick with her mind like a piece of her soul. She would never lose them, any piece of them.
She knew someday they would come in handy. Someday she would meet the right group of musicians that would just "get" her.
Then and only then would she truly be whole.
Until then I was content to sit by her side.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (1 so far!)
This is a sweet little picture of friendship.
- Posted 7 days ago
- Published 16 days ago.
- Story viewed 5 times and rated 0 times.
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