DerangedDiligence

If starboard is always right, then...port is always wrong, The keel is happy and healthy as long as it doesn't start singing its song. The sails are well when tied or full but never in a storm, Steer clear of reef and rock and take 'er straight when rogue waves form. Be still in waters made of glass, let fired mornings tether~ Your worries to the anchor as you wait for fairer weather. In crimson sunsets seek the light and venture forth 'til morning, And rememeber all I've told you as a salty, sailor's warning.

There’s a difference between an artist and a bohemian. An artist creates. A bohemian feels. An artist prospers. A bohemian grows. An artist seeks to capture what beauty he can to make profit from it. A bohemian takes what he sees and interprets it for others. Gifts it to them in a plethora of forms. An artist seeks fame and fortune. A bohemian seeks peace and understanding. An artist longs to be remembered. A bohemian wants only to learn and to teach. An artist is an effigy. A bohemian is a legacy.

Plot-Motion and Communication When someone says in a role-playing ad, “Please contribute to the plot! I don’t want to be the only one moving it!” What that means is…doing more than simply moving your character from point A to point B. I know when someone says “moving” people immediately think actual motion – no. In a plot, simply moving a character does not move plot. It moves the character. It does absolutely nothing further to establish a plot or story drive. What establishes plot are actions that actually help it do that. Like: Offering a bit of insight to your character’s background. In-game conversations about characters’ pasts can trigger entire story arcs. Creating a random event that affects everyone (for example: a fire breaks out in a tavern or raiders attack a village. For modern games the fire could break out in an apartment building and a gang might harass a neighborhood.). This helps jumpstart any scenario, especially with larger groups and helps keep

There was a day of brisk and bitter wind which roamed the land, Which chilled a pair upon the road, a satyr and a man. So frigid was the bitter wind, so cold was its embrace~ That the man took both his hands and cupped them well about his face. Air he blew upon them; the satyr now confused, He paused to ask his friend, to give the floating question muse: "What do you do, my friend?" He inquired with intent, The man removing both his hands to chuckle and relent: "I'm warming them, my good sir, so bitter is this cold, That the heat upon my breath is proving worth far more than gold!" They both laughed and continued, carried through the snow and loam, To a sheltered, wooded burrow that the satyr called his home. There he made them porridge of a sweetened oat and grain, And once more the man brought article to lip to blow, again. Perplexed and bewildered, the satyr spoke and flicked an ear, "Your porridge should be hot enough to boil, yet and sear!" But the man just started laughing

Follow me, little lovely, I could be so good to you, I'd always keep my actions gentle, know just what to do. Trust me, dear, sweet child, come unto my spell, Know that "they" are enemies who think that you're unwell. Keep close and I'll protect you, stay near and you shall know, Of all the things I do for you to help you "learn" and "grow." Trust in all I say to you, you know I'd never lie, And soon you won't think twice as you forget to ask me, "Why?" So follow me, my lovely, and remember I alone~ Am what stands between you and a fate so foully sown. Trust me, wailing infant, I'm the only one you can... And bare your very soul to me to bind you to my plan.

A little too old for some places, A little too young for some things. A little too savvy for schemers, And a little too wise to be king. A little bit sure yet uncertain, A little bit stuck in my ways. A little bit angry yet distant, And a little bit weary by day. A little too much for most people, A little too little, too late. A little too lost for ambition, And a little too subject to fate. A little bit mad yet on-level, A little bit willing to try. A little bit tired but eager, And a little bit ready to die.

Are you under the impression there is one path to success? Did someone claim confession in the "seeds of truth" professed? Have your mentors all been quacked upon delusions in their minds? Has not a single one of them told you joy is yours to find...? Have lessons all been warped for you with words your parents chose? Have teachers left you empty when they throw away your prose? Has the poetry upon your soul revealed you for a coward? Or do the words they bandy simply leave you less empowered...? See them not, ignore their cries and find your peace without them, There's not a single moment we should waste to dwell about them. There was never just one path to anything we'd call success, And there's not a single person we must worship or impress. So nevermind the mentors if their words are bent and savage, We're too busy now with goals we've set with several caught and ravaged. Remember: there are many paths with truer seeds to plant, And there's not a single person who can tell