So there was this hermit who lived on a hill, high above the rest. Everybody could see him from where they were, but that's just as much as they knew of him. Nobody knew what he was really like, nor they knew what his favorite color was. It could have been purple, or blue, since his house was surrounded with those colors. Or maybe he liked the mossy green that covered his fence. Nobody knew. All that they know of him, was from what they could see on that very high hill.
Nobody really knew, what the hermit sounded like, except during those chilly nights, when the haunting sound of his violin whispered from his cabin. It rooted passerbys on the spot, filling them with his emotions that lay hidden within those solitary symphonies. Nobody ever stopped to praise him for his gift. Nobody ever stopped by to ask him why? (Why So Serious? Lol). Everybody went on with their journies, for it was too bothersome to climb up a hill that was too high.
Nobody knew, that the hermit longed for company. Friends, who cheer and make time cease to exist. Just friends, who will go with you to the abyss. Nobody knew, that he could never set foot on the grass of the lower hills. For he was bound by his conscience, towards something inside his cabin.
Nobody knew, except himself. As he struggled with it, fighting a fruitless battle day by day. It made him weak, but it gave him hope. It kept him up at night. Alone with only crickets and stars to mesmerize him, a violin to preserve his sanity. It was a cause which held no value, but he paid the price for it.
..okay this is as far as I can go for now. more ideas later.
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