Post by Amelia Voltierre on Nov 2, 2013 18:23:21 GMT -5
Humans.
Such an intirguing race of people. Eris could not help but wonder how they were capable of such beauty, of such art, of such perception and talent. Athough she had recieved distrubuted segments of humanity in her creation, she had yet to understand or fully comphrehend them and their methods. How they managed to build a phenominal museum, such as the one she was visiting at present, piqued her interest, and she could not fathom their purpose nor their motivation.
She wandered, painting to painting, like a ghost. Like a memory, just passing by. Through the ages, Humanity's paintings seemed to grow more and more extreme, more accepted, no matter their obvious eccentricies and bizarre representations. Men like Van Gogh, however seemingly insane and emotionally disturbed, now was one of the greatest artists in all of mankind and on all of Earth. How were humans so capable of adaption, of acceptance and compassion, and yet so capable of deciet, of denial and hatred as well? What made them this way? Was it time? Was it their obdurate, upheld ethics and character-accalimed morality? Or, did it simply vary from individual to individual until a whole society agreed and submitted it as just?
Her black heels halted in front of a painting entitled "The Starry Night". Her hands settled themselves inside dark trenchcoat pockets, as fishnets and a black Victorian corset dress peeked out from the knee-length gothic duster. A mahagony gaze, void of emotion save for a slither of wistfulness, and pale face, nullified of expression, focused on the infamous picturesque. She could not help but relate to the scene and somehow feel connected to everything that it was, everything that it entitled, everything that it implied.
Even if... she didn't neccesarily appear to -- or rather, neccesarily could not -- feel on the outside.
Such an intirguing race of people. Eris could not help but wonder how they were capable of such beauty, of such art, of such perception and talent. Athough she had recieved distrubuted segments of humanity in her creation, she had yet to understand or fully comphrehend them and their methods. How they managed to build a phenominal museum, such as the one she was visiting at present, piqued her interest, and she could not fathom their purpose nor their motivation.
She wandered, painting to painting, like a ghost. Like a memory, just passing by. Through the ages, Humanity's paintings seemed to grow more and more extreme, more accepted, no matter their obvious eccentricies and bizarre representations. Men like Van Gogh, however seemingly insane and emotionally disturbed, now was one of the greatest artists in all of mankind and on all of Earth. How were humans so capable of adaption, of acceptance and compassion, and yet so capable of deciet, of denial and hatred as well? What made them this way? Was it time? Was it their obdurate, upheld ethics and character-accalimed morality? Or, did it simply vary from individual to individual until a whole society agreed and submitted it as just?
Her black heels halted in front of a painting entitled "The Starry Night". Her hands settled themselves inside dark trenchcoat pockets, as fishnets and a black Victorian corset dress peeked out from the knee-length gothic duster. A mahagony gaze, void of emotion save for a slither of wistfulness, and pale face, nullified of expression, focused on the infamous picturesque. She could not help but relate to the scene and somehow feel connected to everything that it was, everything that it entitled, everything that it implied.
Even if... she didn't neccesarily appear to -- or rather, neccesarily could not -- feel on the outside.
