I've written songs / In the dark, in the dark, in the dark [Solo Log]
Characters: Wolfram (bumpychampion)
Date/Time: Backdated to the night of May 18th, before the Wilderness shift.
Location: Wilderness - Disney World shopping area.
Rating: PG (Just in case.)
Summary: Wolfram, wanting to stretch his legs after a good day's sleep, finds himself drawn towards an arts and crafts store he happened upon.
Wolfram awoke in one of the Beach Resort's many rooms as still as he had been throughout his day time slumber. The night before had proved trying both in his disorienting birth (complete with the worst Greeter, he imagined, in the history of Edensphere) and the arguments he had managed to get himself in with the residents over the journals. He had dreamed of it interspersed with the dream he had come to the Wilderness with and, apparently, his mind hadn't yet resolved his issues.
The taxing evening had made itself obvious in his attitude, in his easy irritability, and he made a mental note to compose himself a little better the next time. Oh, he had no issue with how he had spoken to those too jaded or cowardly to worry about potential survivors, but there were some - like Amurui, Fracta and Qǐ - that he been too short with. It wasn't something he'd apologize for, but it was something he was going to learn from. Sliding his legs off the bed and using the momentum to sit up, he pondered what to do with his night. He hadn't made any acquaintances he could ask over to occupy his time and, truthfully, he probably wouldn't have anyway. He found moments like now, where he was sitting peacefully alone in a thin blanket of darkness, to be serene. They weren't enough to take away the still-faceless guilt that he had carried on his shoulders since 'birth', but it did help lighten the load. All of that said, however, he still didn't want to stay inside all night. Looking down at himself, at the pair of white medical-like scrubs he was sporting, he decided a new pair of clothes might be on the agenda.
Slipping on the pair of equally pair sneakers that had come in his welcoming package, feeling sufficiently awkward as he did, the man rose up and aimed himself towards the door. The trip out into the halls, to the lobby and eventually out into the Disney World streets all ran together in his mind. More important things, like the parts of his dreams that weren't muddled with journal concerns, occupied the front of his thoughts. None of it made sense to him, of course, but he could still see every image, could still hear every sound like it was happening right in front of him. Burn had told him that this was unique, that most lacked the kind of memory he possessed, and it made him feel more than a little fortunate. After all, how a group of amnesiacs went around unable to cling to every moment they could remember was beyond him. Imagining any of it growing stale, growing hazy and indistinct, irked the man. It was all he had of himself, after all.
Rather than consult any kind of map to expedite the process, Wolfram allowed himself to roam the vast amusement park in search of a shopping district without any assistance. He had the whole night, after all, and everything he really wanted to do could only be accomplished in the Tree itself. As that wasn't a possibility for the time being, he had to fill his time with something, even if it lacked the excitement most were enjoying and instead boiled down to little more than practical browsing.
As it turned out, finding stores was hardly difficult. As a matter of fact, they seemed to litter every other lot in the place; a proud stamp of commercialism in all of its money-bleeding glory. The real obstacle was finding one with clothes that he actually wanted to wear. More than once he found himself tempted to buy a black outfit riddled with cartoon characters just to be rid of his current wardrobe, but every time he'd end up convincing himself that the next place would have better things. After what had to be the twentieth shop, he at last found himself paused by something - and it wasn't clothes.
In the window, promoting the arts and crafts store, was an easel with a vivid painting of Mickey and Minnie mouse. The easel itself didn't appeal to him, but the idea of art, of even simple sketching, had him carefully wading within. There was a customer or two there, each being helped by a mannequin - creatures he had grown used to fifteen stores back - which left him to peruse without interruption. That was just as well. There were a great number of things that tempted him to spend his moderate allowance, things not limited to a daunting array of paints and brushes and pencils of every size, shape and color, but with his limited budget, he chose only the items that he itched to own the most. In the end, with barely any coin left to call his own, he left the store with two large white bags, each sporting the park's big-eared logo. In total, the apparently budding artist had picked up five each of the small, medium and large sketch pads (for a total of fifteen, six tins of differing charcoal pencils, and a respectable rainbow of paints and their accompanying brushes.
Something about walking through the moonlit streets with a hefty bag of art supplies in each hand made him...defensive. It was a private thing, for a reason he lacked, and he found his walk back to his room at the Beach Resort to be notably hastened. There would be no avoiding the crowds on the way out of the Wilderness when the time came, he knew, but hopefully by then he'd have gotten over, well, whatever it was.
Hopefully.
Date/Time: Backdated to the night of May 18th, before the Wilderness shift.
Location: Wilderness - Disney World shopping area.
Rating: PG (Just in case.)
Summary: Wolfram, wanting to stretch his legs after a good day's sleep, finds himself drawn towards an arts and crafts store he happened upon.
Wolfram awoke in one of the Beach Resort's many rooms as still as he had been throughout his day time slumber. The night before had proved trying both in his disorienting birth (complete with the worst Greeter, he imagined, in the history of Edensphere) and the arguments he had managed to get himself in with the residents over the journals. He had dreamed of it interspersed with the dream he had come to the Wilderness with and, apparently, his mind hadn't yet resolved his issues.
The taxing evening had made itself obvious in his attitude, in his easy irritability, and he made a mental note to compose himself a little better the next time. Oh, he had no issue with how he had spoken to those too jaded or cowardly to worry about potential survivors, but there were some - like Amurui, Fracta and Qǐ - that he been too short with. It wasn't something he'd apologize for, but it was something he was going to learn from. Sliding his legs off the bed and using the momentum to sit up, he pondered what to do with his night. He hadn't made any acquaintances he could ask over to occupy his time and, truthfully, he probably wouldn't have anyway. He found moments like now, where he was sitting peacefully alone in a thin blanket of darkness, to be serene. They weren't enough to take away the still-faceless guilt that he had carried on his shoulders since 'birth', but it did help lighten the load. All of that said, however, he still didn't want to stay inside all night. Looking down at himself, at the pair of white medical-like scrubs he was sporting, he decided a new pair of clothes might be on the agenda.
Slipping on the pair of equally pair sneakers that had come in his welcoming package, feeling sufficiently awkward as he did, the man rose up and aimed himself towards the door. The trip out into the halls, to the lobby and eventually out into the Disney World streets all ran together in his mind. More important things, like the parts of his dreams that weren't muddled with journal concerns, occupied the front of his thoughts. None of it made sense to him, of course, but he could still see every image, could still hear every sound like it was happening right in front of him. Burn had told him that this was unique, that most lacked the kind of memory he possessed, and it made him feel more than a little fortunate. After all, how a group of amnesiacs went around unable to cling to every moment they could remember was beyond him. Imagining any of it growing stale, growing hazy and indistinct, irked the man. It was all he had of himself, after all.
Rather than consult any kind of map to expedite the process, Wolfram allowed himself to roam the vast amusement park in search of a shopping district without any assistance. He had the whole night, after all, and everything he really wanted to do could only be accomplished in the Tree itself. As that wasn't a possibility for the time being, he had to fill his time with something, even if it lacked the excitement most were enjoying and instead boiled down to little more than practical browsing.
As it turned out, finding stores was hardly difficult. As a matter of fact, they seemed to litter every other lot in the place; a proud stamp of commercialism in all of its money-bleeding glory. The real obstacle was finding one with clothes that he actually wanted to wear. More than once he found himself tempted to buy a black outfit riddled with cartoon characters just to be rid of his current wardrobe, but every time he'd end up convincing himself that the next place would have better things. After what had to be the twentieth shop, he at last found himself paused by something - and it wasn't clothes.
In the window, promoting the arts and crafts store, was an easel with a vivid painting of Mickey and Minnie mouse. The easel itself didn't appeal to him, but the idea of art, of even simple sketching, had him carefully wading within. There was a customer or two there, each being helped by a mannequin - creatures he had grown used to fifteen stores back - which left him to peruse without interruption. That was just as well. There were a great number of things that tempted him to spend his moderate allowance, things not limited to a daunting array of paints and brushes and pencils of every size, shape and color, but with his limited budget, he chose only the items that he itched to own the most. In the end, with barely any coin left to call his own, he left the store with two large white bags, each sporting the park's big-eared logo. In total, the apparently budding artist had picked up five each of the small, medium and large sketch pads (for a total of fifteen, six tins of differing charcoal pencils, and a respectable rainbow of paints and their accompanying brushes.
Something about walking through the moonlit streets with a hefty bag of art supplies in each hand made him...defensive. It was a private thing, for a reason he lacked, and he found his walk back to his room at the Beach Resort to be notably hastened. There would be no avoiding the crowds on the way out of the Wilderness when the time came, he knew, but hopefully by then he'd have gotten over, well, whatever it was.
Hopefully.