Chapter 378: Writing Poetry
The gathering took place at the home of Steward, a writer good friend of Roca's.
It is said that this guy came from an oil tycoon's family, but he didn't like to inherit the family business in the company, so he ran away to become a writer to pursue his literary dream.
Among the down-and-out people, he is the most well-off and is often teased by Roca as "the one who will go back and inherit billions of dollars if he doesn't work hard."
Steward's home is a two-story wooden villa located next to a beautiful lake.
According to him, he has to walk around the lake every day to find inspiration.
When Roca parked the car, he found that there were already several cars parked around, and it was obvious that most of his other friends had arrived.
Seeing this scene, he hurriedly parked the car, tidied his clothes, and knocked on the door of the villa.
"Rocca, you are the only one missing."
The one who opened the door was Stewart. He was very tall, with long, thin cheeks and a dimple on one cheek when he smiled. "Shara brought some fortune cookies today. You should try some..."
"Uh-huh."
Roca agreed and walked into the living room. He saw that many people had already arrived and were surrounding a somewhat unfamiliar man, watching him paint.
He wore a tilted painter's hat, a sky blue shirt and plaid overalls. He had handsome features, but overall, he was not much different from the wandering painters who made a living by painting portraits for people that could be seen everywhere in the square.
"Who is this?"
Roca asked as he picked up the last fortune cookie from the tray next to him.
"His name is Simpson. He just came to our Orsay. He was introduced by Dick..." Steward said a little unhappily, "He calls himself a wandering abstract painter."
"He has stolen the attention of too many girls from us, even Shara..." Roca knew why Steward was like that, so he teased him, broke the fortune cookie in his hand with a crisp sound, and pulled out the note: "Bad luck?!"
"Um?"
Steward took the paper and chuckled, "A prank by the merchant? You're so unlucky, brother! We never get to eat this, you've won the jackpot!"
"A prank...huh?"
Roca looked at the word "misfortune" and suddenly felt a sharp pain in his temple.
'What... have I forgotten?'
'Doom? Why does it feel so familiar?'
"What's wrong with you, buddy? Is it the aftereffects of the last car accident?" Steward asked with concern.
"I... I'm fine!" Roca sat down on the sofa, feeling that his headache was better, but more doubts followed: 'I... I was in a car accident? Why did I forget it?'
"Everyone...it's done!"
At this moment, Simpson stopped painting, revealing the complete painting .
Red, black, yellow, green...all kinds of bright colors gathered on the canvas, making Roca feel a little nauseous for some reason.
In addition, there are irregular and twisted lines, which can even make people dizzy if they are stared at for a long time, as if they are constantly wriggling.
"It's great... I seem to see some of Master Constantine's charm in it."
A girl in a red dress exclaimed.
"I saw inspiration coming, it was amazing, this perfect combination of colors..."
“And this line…”
Voices of praise were heard all around.
Roca suddenly felt a little dizzy, as if the buildings around him were spinning in circles with him as the center.
The figures all became blurry.
"Everyone present is a literary figure. I think a beautiful painting must be matched with a beautiful poem..." Simpson smiled, with some anticipation in his eyes: "I wonder who will perform next?"
“If we’re improvising, we’re definitely Roca here!”
When Steward saw Shara's gaze on him, his face turned red and he quickly pulled Roca's arm.
He knew his talent, and if he didn't spend a whole night thinking about it and suddenly produced his work, he would definitely make a fool of himself. He had no choice but to ask his good friends for help.
"Yes, Mr. Roca's literary reputation is something I have admired for a long time. I even read one of your three-line poems in a magazine..."
Simpson smiled, handed over the cardboard and pen, and put them in Roca's hands.
Roca's hearing was already a little fuzzy.
The surrounding is a literary salon during the day.
But in his eyes, those figures became mottled and distant, like the branches of black trees at night.
Those numerous voices also turned into dark and hoarse whispers.
Crack!
The flames exploded. It was a bonfire. There were black figures and slightly crazy mumblings...
A kind of desire, as if accumulating in the chest, is about to burst out from the brushstrokes uncontrollably.
Roca took the pen and began to write his poem on the paper in a sleepwalking manner.
No, this is not his poem, but it is something that was originally engraved in his body and in his spirit. Now, it is just reappearing in the world in this form!
"Rocca can still write poetry, so it seems he's fine, but he a little too fanatical..."
Steward muttered something in his heart, moved closer, and saw the slightly messy words on the paper.
The front part was a mess, completely invisible, like a child's casual scribbles, with a few words written and then quickly crossed out.
Later on, the number of corrections gradually decreased and became understandable.
It’s like a continuous creative process.
After a little arrangement, Stewart felt that he saw a line of poetry and read it softly:
"I have experienced rebirth and death, but I cannot reach the other side..."
"Death follows the shadows, and no beauty will not die in withering..."
"This poem will live on and grant you immortality..."
These three lines of poetry had some alterations in some places, but they still had a strange charm that made the eyes of many people present light up.
"That's it, that's it!"
Simpson's face was fanatical, and he shouted: "Immortal! Immortal existence!"
His voice was strange, and seemed a little out of tune: "This poem will live on, and grant you immortality..."
After he read it out with strange syllables, everyone present felt something was wrong.
My body is fine, but my spirit feels like a huge black rock is pressing down on me.
Just as Stewart was about to say something, he found himself collapsed on the ground, without even the strength to utter a word.
Most of the people present were like this.
The only ones who could still maintain their posture were Roca and Simpson.
Roca rubbed his temple and looked at Simpson who came to grab his poem: "I seem to have... seen you?!"
"You remember, the survivor of the ritual?"
Simpson's expression turned grim: "It is your honor to listen to the voice of the great being. Now... you are useless."
He pulled out a black dagger and slowly stepped forward: "Death is the destination of everything!"
In this strange atmosphere, Roca was horrified to find that he had no strength to resist and could only watch Simpson come to him.
As if it was an illusion brought about by death, he saw a curtain of light emerging before his eyes.
