#mathieu-williams

[suniukai]

♫

[he’s in a pretty good mood, humming and singing this song, as he throws out his trash]

I got this feeling inside my bonesIt goes electric, wavey when I turn it onAll through my city, all through my homeWe're flying up, no ceiling, when we in our zone

[boundbymusic-blog]

♫

Roderich didn’t like to sing. His voice, in his opinion, wasn’t made for something like that. But he’d heard a song playing in the grocery store earlier that day, and now it was stuck in his head. Before he knew it, he was quietly singing to himself.

“If you are afraid, come out.... If you are awake, come out... Come out and level up...”

The moment he noticed he was within earshot of someone else he stopped.

[mathieu-williams-blog-blog]

Isn't there something you should be doing instead of messing around?

Possibly, I say to myself.

[fromtheheartofdixie-inactiv-blog]

@mathieu-williams

Aimless wandering seemed to be the purpose of his life in these final years of the 19th century, the blooming, glorious spring back in old Dixie long gone, replaced with the dying splendor of fall.  How ridiculous, that nature would have it encased in these months, in which creatures went dormant and plants died, that the colors would be so magnificent.  Dying, yet beautiful, with the array of golds, amber hues, intermingled so intimately with bright reds.  The warmth of summer shed away as the leaves on trees did, replaced with days and nights that seemed so chilled to him, yet not yet the biting frigidity he would encounter in a few months time.

The spring was gone, the magnolias still appearing nothing but charred in his eyes.  Spring and summer had ended, and yet there was this one last burst of glory before the final end.

His final end.

Or was it?  It had been several decades since that day in Appomattox.  With the surrender, his nation officially dissolved, he'd patiently waited for death, or pure nothingness, to sweep in and take him away.  His people, who now grew older, continued to live in a haze of sorts, memories of the "old days" still fresh in their minds, so different from the troubles they now dealt with.  The economy had--as he had predicted--completely collapsed without the slaves.  His aging people, and their children, struggled as the northerners dealt with no where near the same strife.

The Yankee was still caught up in his delusions about "Manifest Destiny," but frankly, he just did not care.  His enemy would bury himself soon enough.  One could not throw themselves into things the way the Yankee did without making a few enemies.  And truly, he supposed he was not entirely different, with his failed plans of a Mexican colony after the war.  A last resort.  He'd run further south, unsure of what was left in his own dead Old South.  France had protected him, the only being he continued to believe to be his friend after the war's end.  Believed.  He'd been betrayed by the French military's cowardice actions of simply abandoning their Confederate "friends" in the middle of Mexican conflict.  But, of course, the Yankee newspapers had called their former enemies the true cowards, for running to Mexico to begin with.

And so here he was, his wanderings taking him north now.  He'd recalled at one point being in Nebraska, his travels taking him further and further.  Where he was now, he did not know.  It was cold, by his standards, and he did not like it.

Stellar, however, as he had already let his thoughts wander towards.  Perhaps he simply moved to gain information.  It was fascinating, seeing how different each environment was.  It rarely got cold down in the deep south, where he truly preferred to reside.  England, where he had spent a great deal of time, was rainy, cold.  The Yankee's territory got quite a bit of snow, up in the northeast.  The west was entirely different in itself, although wonderful with its mountains.  Forests were nice enough as well.

The war had made him grown accustomed to these long adventures to wherever, and a large part of his heart still fought on, trapped forever in 1864.

A town was on the horizon, but he'd already spent enough dollars attempting to live in luxury as the world fell apart around him.  Camping it was, tonight.  Alone, out amongst the trees.  He was lonely, maybe.  Maybe.

[fromtheheartofdixie-inactiv-blog]

mathieu-williams replied to your post: mathieu-williams liked your post: It’s been a...

… Yeah. I guess that’s one way to put it.

Funny.